


The Meadow

by sentimentsandsemblance (orphan_account)



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-05-09 19:06:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 11
Words: 45,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5551763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/sentimentsandsemblance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Childhood, friendship, war, and then reunion between two people that separated them for more than a decade. Peeta and Gale venture into their lives when they first met at a wide, forbidden as stated by the Capitol field that was situated outside the electric fence in District 12.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: The Meadow

PROLOGUE: THE MEADOW

The meadow.

It was the place that I chose to run away from mom that day when I once again failed to get the muffins out of the oven on time. It was not the first time mom did that. I was only 12 that time and living in a poverty stricken land with almost little to no assistance or sympathy for the Capitol, it made things harder for me to even accept the state of life that we were living in. I sense that mom feels that way too, from the way she beats me relentlessly for the tiniest mistakes that I had no intention on doing it on purpose. Dad did not do anything, as usual. As a husband, he is supposed to be the one controlling the situation if the situation were to go out of hand. If only that is true, for whenever my mother hits me, he does nothing to quell the anger that overtake her whole rationale. I did not mind though. If I were to have a wife like her, I too would not try to stop her from beating my child. All I could was give my child the hug after the abuse has been done.

But today is different.

I run, hoping that my mother's anger would subside over the prospect of fresh baked muffins. She, too would find it absurd to be mad over them, if only the state of our live was not in such turbulence. So I ran, not caring if the Peacekeepers were to kill me on the spot for wandering around treacherous ground. I just let instincts take over me, and take over it did. The electric fence that separates the borders between the forest and District 12 compound, has long fallen into disuse. The Peacekeepers never did anything about it, anyway. Not like President Snow would even come to a god forsaken district like ours anyway. The furthest I think he would visit is probably District 4, the land of aquaculture. It did not matter, though. Even though my virtues were built simply by fear, I once told myself that I will never set foot beyond the fence lest you want to get killed, which is clearly none in my line of motives, but my curiosity got the best of me, as at 14 years old, I stepped into the land that was separated by woods that stood over 3 meters and coiled barb wires that were once charged with electricity controlled by a circuit breaker, allowing high voltages to surge through the wires like best friends ready to ally against its bullies.

I enter the area with a bow, making sure that my back and torso do not get scratched by the sharpness of the barbs. I never go beyond the meadow to the woods. I know two people who go there all the time to get game for living. Katniss Everdeen and Gale Hawthorne. It cannot be helped though. The ones at who live at The Seam live a harsher live than one at The Merchant. It is harsh, but The Merchant shares the same traits of what constitutes harshness. I sometimes wonder how the discrepancy even started. What makes The Seam, the Seam and The Merchant, The Merchant. What makes the same difference the same. Blond hair, blue eyes, and pale skin for the lives of The Merchant whilst olive skin, black or brown silky hair and grey eyes for ones in The Seam. There is no discrimination between the two groups, only confusion, which I believe I only seem to have since many of the people living there are to busy trying to find game as a source of income for trading and food for eating.

The meadow was filled with grasses and dandelions littering the area. The meadow is the only place where beauty can be found in District 12. I guess it is a diamond in the rough, as they call it. I did not know why I come here for. I know one is to escape my mother's unreasonable wrath, but sure I have other reasons to come this far away from home. There is nothing here. Only a wide stretch of tall grasses and flowers that bloom once in a while. From lavenders to dandelions, I know that some people who work at The Hob come here to get lavender for trading. A trade that very little, besides myself would come for. I would trade the baked goods for lavender that would be used for future products, particularly pastries, which I sometimes do not understand the purpose of baking an extravagant amount since most of the habitants would take a lifetime to trade for these, and by the time you manage to get enough to trade for a cake, it would be in such an inedible state. The only ones that manage to afford such luxury would be the victors of The Hunger Games, which only has one so far, Haymitch Abernathy and not even him, a drunkard would want that. You will most likely find him in The Hob getting booze and more booze with the money he now has after the 50th Hunger Games 22 years ago. Guess the trauma got into him, I assume. There is actually two victors, only the other one beside Haymitch had died due to old age, or something like that. The other ones who can afford these pastries would be, you guessed it, the Peacekeepers who will most likely use – or as I like to call it, misuse – their power to threaten them to get food, but that is a rare occasion, since if they did kill us, no pastries would be made for them, anyway, a fact and reason the Peacekeepers have no choice but to reluctantly agree and comply too. Not like they have any other uses for the money they have besides food. District 12 has nothing to offer for anyone to visit.

I sat at the field, gazing at the atmosphere. I should have brought my sketchbook and take what was in front of me. Which that cannot seem to happen since my escape from the bakery would not buy me enough time to get the sketchbook and run out of home. My dad is probably giving my mom the talk to calm her down. It is working though, but not by much. It was only around four or five in the afternoon and I could only hear the breeze that would blow in different directions across the field causing the tall grasses to move along with it. I pluck one of the tall grasses and twirl it around my fingers, pondering how poignant life is in District 12. If I had the opportunity, I would participate in The Hunger Games, but that would serve more as a death wish than a chance to take. District 1 would jump at the chance for having the glory and power. A status I somehow yearn though, but only for the purpose of making my life a little better. No one wants to be in a poor forever. Poor in terms of destitution, I mean. I just need enough to support my parents and my brothers, but that would be like asking god for rocks to turn into gold. Wishful thinking, I guess.

I return home, ready to face the impending slap on my face or the rolling pin that would most likely hit me in the back, like usual. I walk out of the meadow, giving one more look of the serenity. I will be sure to return here, that is for sure.


	2. First Name Not-So-Basis

0.1

Bakery is art.

Yeah, that I know very much. It is just depressing knowing that craft is hard to find, especially in an outlying district. All they care about is whether or not there is enough food to feed an entire family. That principle rarely comes into mind, probably because I am too busy loving the artwork I am creating onto the pastries, from eclairs to cakes, all are my go to sketchbooks, even though I own one myself. Despite living in a bakery, it took a lot in us not to eat what is inside. Most of the time, we just eat the bread if no one seems to buy it within a week, where most of the food will expire and rot. The most we could go for these almost expired food is trading them with the people in The Hob, where they take them with open hands, something far better than desperately looking for any bits of meat left in the bones of a chicken wing. Mom and dad never like the plight that we are living in. To trade. Do you know how hard it is to find stuff that is worth of value to trade. That I do not get to this day. Anything you can find that is disused goes straight to either your sibling or the public.

I walk out of the kitchen, with my hands now being wiped by a cloth, ridding it of the flour and food colouring stains that marred my nails. No customers, as usual. The least we could even gather for customers is one. Madge Undersee. With her dad as mayor, it is not hard to have her presence coming in once every three to four days in a week. The income that her dad receives manages to get life going. Especially with the basket of strawberries she brings bi-weekly. She usually donates half of them to the bakery, for purposes many would obviously pinpoint. She was dressed in a white dress that complimented her blond hair, and she was browsing through the shelves thinking which bread would she take to consumption today. I was standing by the counter, hands still too busy trying to get rid of the colouring. Stubborn is an understatement of the day.

“Hey, Peeta,” said Madge sweetly. I returned the greeting with a smile. She is far from the rich kids of the higher districts. She is as humble as any person living in District 12, her father's wealth something irrelevant to living in a place like this. I mean, he is rich but certainly far from enough to suffer him a place far more decent than here. The furthest I think his family could go would probably be District 7, and that place is not as bad as here. More trees, unlike here, barren like the desert. Sucks to be coal miners and bakers in a sullen place like this.

Madge placed a loaf of bread with some sides of doughnuts on the side and took out from her basket half of the strawberries that she had received along with some cheese from the side. Primrose Everdeen's, I immediately thought. She has a goat, and the milk that it produces always comes in handy. Either that, or from District 10. Hey, her father does have connections.

I took the items and placed them in the basket that was placed under the counter and gave her my thanks. She smiled and placed the contents into her bag, but did not leave. My eyebrows scrunched in confusion, “Is there anything else, Madge?”

“Yeah. Um, how are you?”

My eyebrows went to my hairline, and with a pursed set of lips I replied, “Pretty well, I guess?”

“Have you got any cakes made?” she asked.

“Oh, yes. Um, do you want some?” I asked, clearly realized of her intention.

“Well, I don't want to be of inconvenience, but yes,” she replied, “but can I have them tomorrow? I think these will be enough for today,” I nodded and she bid her farewell to me before leaving the bakery.

“Who was that?” asked my dad coming in from the back door.

“Madge Undersee,” I replied.

“Ahh, sweet girl. Would be nice if you got together with her. Or anyone, really. At least better than being raised by your mother,” he said.

I chuckled. “Anyone?” I asked.

“Oh, anyone. Guy or girl. Times like this, all we need is a little bit of love. Whether your mom likes it or not, and she kicks you out, the title father and father-in-law is mine solely,” he said. Dad was always like this. Anything I do would be a pride to only him. My brothers' efforts go into his pot too, but anytime he wants to go philosophical, I would be his primary set of ears to listen.

“I guess so,” I replied, “The Reaping's coming soon,”

“Yea, I know. Rye manages to escape incoming death, but I wish I could say the same for you and Wheat,” he said morbidly.

“Hopefully, neither one of us gets picked,” I said hopefully.

“I hope so too, son,” he said with s weak smile. He never liked the idea of untrained kids killing themselves. Anyone who loves this kind of heinous activity is merely a byproduct of the influence the Capitol had placed on them and in lieu of being feared of the prospects of their deaths, they seem to glorify it, all because of a simple incentive. Fame.

“Why don't you go out and walk for a bit? No point wasting yeast and flour on bread that we're sure never will sell but to Peacekeepers,” he said. I nodded and removed my apron and proceeded to wash my hands. I left the bakery and walked past the crowd of coal miners. Seeing them made me realize that it was already the peak hours for today and they were all heading home for a well deserved break. I walked past them and headed to the meadow, with hopes that a nap there would comfort the stress of the upcoming Reaping that all twelve to eighteen year old would have to go through. That agonizing hour would only be relieved when a name but yours is called.

I went over to the fence and entered through it. The meadow has not changed, bare of any human beings. I walked down the usual path and saw two figures just entering the area. Curiosity got the best of me and against my better judgment, I followed them as well. With a sinking feeling, that I could have used my time to actually relax and cool off from everything, here I am, investigating and literally going through the possibility of my eventual loss of path. I hope I remember when to go when I am through with this. The forest is not really home to many dangerous creatures, unless you are well deep enough for an early death wish, then by all means. Knowing the hunters that traverse here, they least you could gain here are squirrels, turkeys and if you are lucky, a deer.

As I tried to keep a stealthy approach following them, I saw the two individuals. Figures who I was looking at, Katniss and Gale. Both surrounding a tree bark that was laid on the dead leaves covered ground. Katniss crouched and dug her hands into the bark and from that moment came out a quiver of arrows and a bow. Gale, on the other hand, was keeping an eye out for any Peacekeepers, or worse, me. Not that they know about me being in the meadow once in a while, but hey, it would not harm you for being careful.

They two walked on, with Katniss clad in a brown leather jacket and her hair braided as usual. That was her signature style. If you spot anyone with brown hair being braided up, then your guess is as good as mine; Katniss Everdeen. With boots up half towards her shin and clothes that suited the hunting trek, she looked like a rebel, in my opinion, at least.

Beside her was Gale. Tall, about six feet, I guess and wearing a beige Henley shirt that covered his torso and long arms. His dark hair and slightly dirty olive complexion too made the place a suitable home for them to live in. His jeans were slightly tattered and a bit muddied from my vantage point, but nonetheless, decent.

I walked over and I did not know how long had I been hiding to see them gathering their spoils for the day. From the net traps and snares, they used, it is no wonder they manage to still live today. Unlike other people living in District 12, I believe that myself, Madge and the two hunters were the only ones well fed and nourished. Their hands were now loaded with killed turkeys and squirrels, but their faces unamused. For people who manage to gain some loot, it seems surprising how disappointment seem to color their faces. I walked on, making sure that my paces are well apart to attract their attention.

I soon ended up outside the forest and only saw the brunette haired Katniss leaving the Meadow. My mind instantly went into confusion mode as I swore that Gale was just tailing her the entire time. Not wanting to stay any longer, I walked on, leaving the entire meadow, when tow hands grabbed my shoulder and pushing me down, my torso meeting the ground. I turned around to see Gale, with fury decorating his face. My eyes widened as I saw the machete in his head ready to saw me.

“WAIT! PLEASE I MEAN NO HARM!” I begged with a scream, hoping my last bit of what I manage to muster as a plead is enough to let him think rationally. His eyes widened with realization, and he lowered the machete in his head, and crouched himself to have his grey eyes meet with mine.

“You're the baker's son,” he said, clearly making an observation.

“I am. Just don't hurt me,”

“Sorry, I thought you were some spy,” said Gale.

“How'd you know I'm not?”

“One, if you were, I doubt you manage to walk into the forest stealthily. Your footsteps are literally heavy enough for me to hear in the distance. Two, you got caught by me, all the more reason to prove to me that you're not a spy. Otherwise, you wouldn't be caught by me,” he said, confidence laced in his words.

“Good point,” I said, “Now, if you'll excuse me, I would like to stand up,”

Keeping his gaze onto my eyes, he eventually stands without a word, followed by me. I walk over to the fence and make my way through it without any problem. He followed suit and we both walk back to the town.

“What were you doing in the forest?”

“The meadow. I was there for the meadow but then I saw you and Katniss walking into the forest and I guess curiosity got the best of me. So I followed you both,” I explained truthfully.

“I see. You should stick to the meadow,”

“From now on, I will. Seeing you guys hunt really isn't a sight I want to experience,” I said. He hummed in acknowledgement and we continued walking.

“Introductions have long been delayed,”

“Not really if everyone knows each other,” I retorted, “Not like anyone here is going to get pregnant here anytime soon unless they have some sort of death wish or under the hallucination that their child would win The Hunger Games,”

“Good point,” replied Gale with a chuckle.

“This is strange,” I said after a long pause between our conversation as we continued walking.

“What is?”

“The fact that we're talking. I mean, no offense but you pretty much ignore anyone from the Seam unless they're working in the Hob and my dad,” I explained. He did not reply, not that I was expecting him too, but here in a small district, many would assume you would know each other and be all friendly. Well, your guess is wrong. First name basis is all we can ever get to.

We both arrived at my bakery, surprise now coursing through my body as I saw that Gale had accompanied me all the way here, “This is me,” I said awkwardly.

He, too was surprised, clearly not aware of the fact they we had walked all the way to my home. I could see his ears going slightly pink in awkwardness.

“Well,” he began, “I'll see you next time,”

“I guess so,” I replied back, my tone copying his.

I walked back into the bakery and headed to my room. I was looking through the window and saw the tall individual walking back home. I laid on my bed, clearly not surprised that my brother, Rye mentions that we would not be having dinner tonight. We are too adapted to hunger anyway.


	3. Introductions

0.2

Today is Tuesday, and three weeks from now on, the Reaping will begin. A boy and a girl from each district, from the ages of twelve to eighteen, will be sent to the Capitol, where they are forced to fight each other until one survives. Simple concept, yet brutal in every note. I don't really understand what purpose of these games held are for anyway. The video clip that they repeatedly play at the Justice Building, right after the mayor's speech, shows that the games were a symbol of compensation for the upbringing that occurred 74 years ago. The Dark Days, they call it. For some reason, the Capitol had prevailed, and some treaty was signed between the Capitol and the other districts that declared that two tributes from each district will be sent as a form of sacrifice every year.

I have a sickening feeling that the tribute that they will call will be me. The male tribute for 12. I just cannot shake this hunch that I will be selected to take on 23 other tributes for the title of the Victor. They say that the prize for the winner will get a grand mansion, money, which was no surprise and a lifetime supply of food until the Victor's passing. They all sound great, but yet again, I feel like it is all too good to be true. That is something I cannot rid my mind of. Like, are the prizes that are really the only thing that is awarded? Knowing the Capitol, it feels like there is something sneaking underlying beneath the surface. Like an ulterior motive. But what, exactly.

I was kneading dough tenderly, my mind focused on getting the next batch done before the evening starts. These baked goods are to be sent to the Head Peacekeeper, whom is surprisingly decent towards the citizens of District 12. I guess the sombre atmosphere of District 12 made the Peacekeepers slightly lenient towards the rules here. They only act on their duty seriously when the Reaping begins but who can blame them. Their work will be monitored by the Capitol. You will not find it as a surprise if you see a Peacekeeper talking to the citizens once in a while you pass by the road. However, the number of times you see that is quite seldom. Most of the Peacekeepers are as brutal as the ones trained in District 12. Besides, District 12 citizens are too afraid to break rules and marriages are a rarity here. The lack of food and toiletries here make it hard for proper care, let alone a proper hospital to be constructed.

I finished kneading the dough and all that was left to do was to split them. I began dividing them in equal portions and made sure that they do not stick on the surface with the works of flour. I plan to leave for the Meadow as usual after my work is done and mom would not really mind. It was almost a week that I have been visiting the same plain and mother does not really mind so long as there are no faults in my work. It was worth it, though. Gale would always find me there sometimes but never made the move to go close to me, with Katniss around obviously. Everyone – and I mean by the youngsters and people of my age – always gossip about how they are the most fitting couple of the district and if they could go even more bold, they once said that both of them would win the Hunger Games since most of their parents have retold the stories of how their survival and hunting skills are up to par. With stories like that and the evidence I saw with my own two eyes a few days ago, I cannot seem to controvert that. They do things together and they are stuck together like glue, and I mean super one at that.

Gale is always the one giving the look when he leaves the forest and I am still surprised that Katniss had not given a glance at his direction. He always give that smile that uncharacteristically warms my heart. He would go in, and minutes later I would arrive at the area, sit at the same exact spot that I would sit and wait until the sun sets and by that time, Gale would have left after Katniss, and he would glance at my direction and give a smile, then leave the Meadow. Seems like the first conversation we first had was the only one we had so far, and I am not complaining.

Madge, on the other hand, visits like her occurring visits, with the same wooden laced basket grasped in her hands. She would take time with her selections and then come back, giving the same trades that she would usually barter off to me. She would make small conversations between us, but all made me more awkward as I did not know what to talk her about. There is literally nothing to say to her, as years of lack of interaction between each other solidified our relationship, if I could call it myself. Our talk would usually consist of long pauses and if I am not mistaken, flirtatious looks that throws me off whenever she leaves. Then again, all the times anyone gives me conversation throws me off. It is weird that I have a natural charm and charisma to mask my awkwardsness. Ha! If that had to be my talent, I am certain that the first thing in response I will receive if I were thrown in the arena, is a knife lodged in my sternum and then to my heart. No joke.

I removed my apron and set the oven to a lower temperature, making sure that my dad, whom had just arrived would save it before it burns, and left the bakery for the meadow. I passed the dirty and muddy street and made sure that the usual shortcut I utilize nearly every visit is still intact in my mind.

I went over to the fence and jogged past a couple poles before arriving at the spot I usually go through. I went in and saw no one walking in the forest. They must have gone in earlier, I presumed. Not caring and feeling the need to stalk them which, the first time was tiring and enervating enough, I walked past the growing weeds and found my favourited spot. What makes this spot different is that the grasses and weeds do not grow to tall and it was perched on top of the small ledge, high enough for me to overlook the scenery that stands motionlessly before me.

I sat and pondered on the outcome of the games. It was a no brainer that they will be no winners coming back to 12, and presumably a pair of dead bodies and the lack of visits for their funerals. That is how it is. If a tribute died and were to be sent back home, the only thing that will happen here in 12 is the lack of ceremony in their funerals. Good thing so little visits them, though. I feel like it would be mocking and pointless, let alone little to talk about their lives, beside them having the shittiest district as their homes, having a life that was filled with undernourishment and then to end it, a knife or their bodies come back from the arena in a dismembered form. Pretty abstract, but true precise regardless.

The exhaustion form in my body from my thoughts brought me to lay back with my back on the ground. I guess the thinking was just exhausting, I did not realize I was tiring myself. Mentally. I laid back and hopefully, my body clock will allow me to wake up before dinner, not that we will have. The starving that we have is only abated by small morsels of bread and fruits that come from the Undersees. I closed my eyes, and let my entire picture before my sight turn black.

•

I woke up and began to panic and I saw the sky above me turning dark. Not literally pitch black dark, but in a shade of violet, signalling the sun has nearly set entirely, ending the afternoon. I rubbed my eyes frantically, hoping that the weariness will wear off quickly and I stood up, but am met with a trip that prompted a slam on my face. Thank goodness there is grass here, or I will be questioned by my brothers regarding my bruises. What I trip over was surprisingly big and stocky, far off the description one would give as a log, because I know and I am not having a stroke that there is no such log placed next to me before I took my nap.

And it certainly does not groan in pain and displeasure.

“I guess I deserved that one,” says the figure. I yelped in shock and my mind was reeled back into reality as I realized that I am in no words or means in the arena, and the only thing that is washing my mind is a Peacekeeper putting me in my place for trespassing the borders, but the said figure was too soft to be called a Peacekeeper because of the lack of their customary white uniform is not donned around his torso. I stand up and see the barely trace of skin and white shirt that covered the majority of his torso. His olive skin almost make it harder to even spot since the brightness of the evening nearly camouflages his presence.

Gale.

“Shit, I'm so sorry,” I say, my body reflexively going to his, and my hands involuntarily touching his soft – surprisingly enough – hands, propping him up to a standing position, but all I manage is a sit up, which he takes sincerely.

“Nah, it's alright. I mean, I did come on to you with a machete in my hand,” he joked playfully, which is not dark enough when he voiced out his humour. I, of course, chuckled in reply, albeit it is a trembling one.

“What are you doing here?” I say, “Gosh, I am late. I need to return home,” I continue.

“I was thinking of talking to you, since what I did was kind of mean and ruthless, holding up a machete and nearly hacking you off to bits. I figured I apologize. Properly,” says Gale with earnestness. I stare into his grey, smoky eyes as the stars above glistened his pupils, with curiosity and confusion.

“You don't have to,” I reason, “Water under the bridge,”. It really is, whatever transpired last week was no big deal. I think mom's beatings have rubbed off on me, so death is probably an extension of the beating that I probably will never feel under I reach the Pearly Gates, “I really need to go,” I say, picking my feet up to a standing position, but my wrist is met with a warm soft hand encircling it. I look in my clasped wrist and then to Gale's eyes in confusion and irritation.

“Let me take you to my home, have dinner with my family, at least in a way of me saying sorry,” he says. My eyes widen at the plea and me, being the ever courteous one, was about to refute when he cut me off with, “I won't take no for an answer, Peeta,” he says.

“I never told you my name,” I retorted, which I wince at.  
“I know. But this is District 12. Everyone knows everyone, here,” he replies. _Fair point._

I sighed, knowing that I will not be able to escape, “Fine,”. Gale stands up and then leads us out the dark lit meadow. I followed behind him, making sure that I do not get lost in the tall weeds. He was taller than me, which is strange, in my opinion, knowing that most of the kids at his age, 18, if I am not mistaken, would be shorter than that. Probably around my height, but he still manage to look fit and well fed. Perks of being a hunter, I guess.

I followed him to the Seam, which has no special qualities when you look at it. The roads are still the same, the lack of asphalt and rocky as always. The houses, all constructed mainly of wood and bricks, and some puddles of murky water that embellished its sad and sorry scenery. Welcome to District 12, everyone. The houses were lit up, mainly of candles, and I can see at some people staring at us, which I think, is rude seeing that their faces are etched with curiosity, fear and distaste, if I can pinpoint properly.

“They're just suspicious, that's all. It's not everyday you see people waking at this hour,” says Gale, as if he read my thoughts. That makes sense, and understandable too. No one walks around at this hour. It was as if some imaginary curfew was brainwashed in their minds, thinking that all matutinal activities cease when the sun sets.

I soon arrive at a house, slightly bigger than the others I saw when we passed. The outside has a cloth line that stretched just outside the house, with clothes pegged and probably soaked. From my vantage point, they look like they were recently washed and hung. There, lay a porch with a rocking chair with some handmade toys and shoes littered on the outside. I stopped outside, just as Gale enters the house. He stops too, noticing my sudden inactivity.

“Well, come in,” he says, slightly irritated in his tone, but welcoming nonetheless.

“I don't want to-”

“If you say intrude, it will be another machete coming your way,” he jokingly says in the seriousness of his tone. Sighing, I entered and slipped off my shoes and placed them by the doorway neatly, segregating them so that I will not be confused, which is highly unlikely, from the rest of the shoes littering on the porch. I enter and see the doorway being illuminated brightly. There was literally lighted candles in every room, and if I were stupid, I would have say that they had enough to get themselves light bulbs and electricity, which they do apparently, when I stare up at the ceiling, but turned off, reasons I do not know why.

“We're trying to save electricity,” he says, his eyes staring at me and his lips tugged into an amused look. How he manages to read and see through my mind baffles me so I nodded in understanding.

“Gale, how about you – Oh, you're the Mellark boy!” says a lady as she enters the corridor. She was dressed in a long white, discoloured dress, her hair, dark brown and eyes darkened with bags underneath. She was olive skinned too, but not as dark as Gale was. She smiles at me and I nodded silently at her words, clearly taken aback by her sudden entrance, “Gale, help me and send your siblings to bed. I'll entertain him with dinner, if that's alright with you?” she now turns to me. Again, I nodded dumbly and Gale gave his affirmative to help send his siblings to bed.

“A bit too early for bed, don't you think?” I ask, unable to help myself.

“I know it is, but Gale always manage to read them to bed. Would not want them to have panda eyes like mine,” she says.

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean-,” she cuts me off with a head shake, and my mouth clasped shut in response.

“Peeta, right?” she asks. I nodded in reply, and she seems relieved on her palpable guess and proceeded to ask me to help her set the table, with her unnecessary excuse of how she was stuck getting candles from the Hob as she had forgotten to bring the right amount of items to trade with Greasy Sae, one of the owners of the Hob stalls. I complied, obviously pitying her over her efforts to get things together. Almost every household in the Seam lack father figures, due to the coal mine explosion that happened last year. It was a normal day at work, they say, and the workers took their usual route and elevator down to the mines when suddenly a huge explosion thundered and reverberated in the air. The warning bell chimed and next thing we knew, it took nearly a month to retrieve the bodies from the mines. Gale's father obviously did not make it, otherwise his mother would not be frantic as she is now. I feel guilty. She was not expecting guest, let alone anyone from the Merchant street since both parties have this weird stiffness between them. I do not have a problem with it, if the same can be said about Gale's mother. She does not seem to be fraught about it, but regardless, she is rushing to get dinner ready, clearly not ready for a guest at this hour.

The kitchen was fairly big, and the dining table was big enough to fit six individuals. The wooden table was covered with a table cloth, with some holes and threads fraying around the edges. I carefully set the bowls on the table and stared at the interiors of the house out of inquisitiveness. It was fairly normal and I was fairly sure that the inside was the reminiscent of a normal house, the messy outside clearly ignored. It was home-y and the illusion was all the more baffling. The walls were decorated with sepia toned images framed. Some of the frames were bare of its glasses and some were shattered but is still intact. The sofa, obviously worn out and if looks could kill, nearly damaged and hazardous, was placed before an old television, its position still intact and strong for use. On the television was a candle being placed on a broken saucepan. It was lit and the place shone brightly for the naked eye. It was simple, but it exuded a home atmosphere. Something far from the other houses have in common.

I felt two strong defined hands gripping my shoulders softly and I turned to see Gale standing in front of me, his face now cleaned of the dirt that blemished his face. There is a smile worn on his face and I could not help but blush at his smile. His hands were still on my shoulders and we were basically, if I dare say, eye fucking each other.

“Mom's says dinner is ready,” he says. He removed his hands from my shoulder and as he turned to the kitchen, I place my hands on my shoulder, feeling the last bits of warmth that crept up on the clothed skin. I shook my thoughts away and followed him into the kitchen. Gale and his mom were now sitting, with their spoons in their hands and awaiting for me to sit. I sit down on the wooden chair and gave them a small smile at them before the three of us tucking in the stew that Gale's mother had prepared. It was not the best, but it did fill the empty stomach that was passive for the last few days. The chunks of meat, presumably from a rabbit, were tender and soft in my mouth, and I guessed that kept me full for the night.

We ended our meal, after Gale getting seconds for himself and him offering rounds for me, to which I tried saying no, but both and his mother would take no for an answer. Guess blood _is_ thicker than water. I took their offer with reluctance, and the smiles that they wore on their faces makes me think that they were either doing that out of the customs of niceties, or sincerity. With my suspicions, I would say it is a mixture of both. I offered to wash the dishes but Gale would not let me, saying it is rude for a guest like myself to be handling the dishes. I would have argued that the next time I visit, it would not really count as a guest as more as payback, but I doubt my next visit will even come.

It was getting late, and I am beginning to think that mom will really castigate, if not, geld me for being this late at home. I am not too sure, as I have never been out of home this late before. Well, first time for everything. I was not worried, though. I have no work tomorrow as Rye's turn is to start tomorrow. Boy, am I glad that my weekly shift ends tonight, or I will be receiving more than a twist of my ear from my mother. I contemplated on leaving but with the streets on the Seam in the dark not the same as the Merchant Street, I begin to feel like my chances of returning home slim.

“The Peacekeeper's here make it impossible to let us leave,” says Gale's mother as she peers through the curtain of the window in the living room. There was a light flashed in her direction, but not directly, just right above her, signalling the presence of the Peacekeepers doing their nocturnal rounds. I could not help but ask why and she gives me a sad look before explaining, “The Seam is more active than the Merchant Street. You know, they are more active in hunting, so they fear of trespassing or escapes happening right under their noses. Their work is usually more active in the night than the day,”

I nodded in comprehension and I now realize that my chances are no longer slim but none.

“Looks like you have to crash in here,” says Gale from behind. His hands are now drying with a cloth. He placed the cloth back on the table before ordering me to follow him. I told him the sofa is fine, but he controverted that the sofa would not hold my weight and it was in desperate need for a repair, and I feel stuck knowing that there is no loophole around his argument. I followed him up on the wooden staircases, and he leads me to a room. It was slightly bare, filled with ropes, nets, knives, some wires and clothes littered on one corner of the room. I almost mistook it as a utility room, if it were not for the huge makeshift bed that was placed in the corner. He went over to the pile of clothes, and searched for clothes. He soon fished out some clothes, inspecting it and finally settled with clothes that may fit my size. He then passes me a towel for my bathroom use, and I nodded in thanks to the older man. I entered the bathroom and see the basin, a faucet, some soap bars and a small plastic pot used for scooping the water.

I closed the wooden door behind me, and began undressing. I turn the faucet on and lather myself by rubbing the soap bar on myself. I begin to feel anxious as I realize that this was used by the Hawthornes and not by the Mellarks. I feel more unsanitary in terms of cleaning myself, but I shook my head and continued anyhow. I soon rinsed myself quickly and dried myself, thanking mentally that I will not be sleeping with dirt and flour on my body. I dried myself with the proffered towel by Gale and cleaned every nook and cranny of my body, making sure no spoors of dirt stick to my body. With a deep breath, I smelled the clothes Gale rendered me, making sure that they well scent to use. I could only smell traces of lavender on the clothes, implying that these are clothes he probably uses during his hunts as he passed through the Meadow to the forest. I wear them and could feel the looseness of the shirt, but it manages to fit surprisingly well. I exited the bathroom and returned to Gale's room.  
When I entered the room, I was met with Gale removing his shirt, displaying the smooth, bare olive skinned back of his. His pants now changed, with my mental thanks or I would have end up yelping in shock, bringing my the awkwardness in the night air. I could not avert my eyes away from the display. It was smooth, and I could almost feel my body having a mind of its own, ready and eager to touch and brush my fingers across the smoothness of his deltoids and shoulder blades. How it would feel nice to feel his back in my hands.

I shook my head with a shiver.

I am glad that he manage to cover himself up with a baggy shirt before my body could go uncontrollably further. He turns around and I swear that his eyes glinted in slight mischief upon seeing me.

Me in his clothes, specifically. My cheeks went red and I could feel my body doing involuntary things despite my mind's resistance.

I cleared my throat and he shook himself off of his stupor.

“Uhh,” I say, hoping to shake off the awkwardness, “Thanks for the clothes,” I begin, walking past him to the window of his bedroom. The Peacekeepers are still walking with their guns in their holsters and flashlights gripped tightly in their gloved hands. Their patrol around the Seam is ostensibly more tighter and regulated here than back home.

“I'm used to that,” he says behind me, his low octave sending chills down my spine. “They won't raid the houses, just patrol and be on the lookout,”

“I'll take the floor,” I say, my eyes now looking away from the window.

“Floor?” he asks, his eyebrows raised, “You're sharing the bed with me,” he says. I gave him a face that spoke _'Are you kidding me?'_ at him and he seemed unmoved with his decision. When taking notice of the silence, I can feel the heat slowly coursing through my cheek. I am thankful of the fire here, or my blush would be easy to notice by the man. Gale moves over to the bed and took the side closest to the wall. He pats the pillows, hoping that dusts are rid off. I presumed the size is more for his siblings sharing than him hogging the entire space. With a heavy mind, I moved to the bed, sitting on it and could hear him muttering, “Turn the lights out, will ya?” I looked over to the floor, spotting the candle on a small piece of wood, residues of dried wax on the surface of the wood. I brought my face to it, and blew the fire out, ending it's temporary life. I laid on the bed, and stared at the ceiling, the anxiety and awkwardness still suffused in my mind, but the drowsiness coming quicker as my head accustoms to the softness of the pillow. Gale, with his low octave voice and sleep laced in his tone, says “Good night,” that makes my heart skip a beat. A wisp of his breath brush past my left cheek.

With a swallow and my eyes begging to shut, I too whispered, “Good night,”

•

I woke up, with the sun barely reaching the peak, and from a ball park figure did I estimate that it is already seven in the morning. I felt relaxed and refreshed from the sleep. I sit up and rubbed my eyes, removing them of the crusts that formed there overnight. I glanced to my left and see the vacant spot. Gale wakes up earlier than I do, what a surprise. I got off the bed and walked downstairs and was met with voices from the corridor. I walked over to the doorway, still in Gale's clothes and saw his mother giving them kisses on their foreheads, before wishing them a safe journey. The three siblings, two boys and a girl, to be precise, were holding a pad and some crayons in their hands. They say their goodbyes, not sparing a single glance towards my existence – which I was grateful for – left the house and joined a lady who was waiting with a girl holding onto his mother's hand. With a wave goodbye did Gale's mother close the door and turned to face me, surprise evident on her expression.

“Morning, Peeta. Care to join us for breakfast?” she asks kindly. I nodded in silent reply and followed her to the kitchen, where Gale was sitting, chewing on a bowl of cereal. He smiled at my presence, milk slightly dripping from the corner of his mouth. I could not help but smile candidly at the endearment before joining him at the dining table. Gale's mother placed a bowl in front of me and I picked up the box of cereal and poured just enough inside, hoping that the amount is enough to not be counted as too shy or too greedy. I poured the milk, and began to eat my meal slowly, taking each bite with interest. I rarely have cereal in my breakfast, or any breakfast in general, so it is a nice change for once.

“Gale, get us some bread from the bakery and get more candles from the Hob, will you? I'm going to meet with Mrs. Cartwright for a while. You take care alright, Peeta?” she asks. I nodded back, my mind cringing at the lack of words used as a response. My mouth was still full of cereal and she left with her hands now tying her hair back into a ponytail. She soon disappears through the door and closes the door shut. I continue to eat and watched as Gale was sneaking glances at me. I could not help but smile at the gesture, and subconsciously turned my head in to my right, my smile still plastered. I could see his smile turned into a toothy grin and then chuckled before he gorges down the rest of his cereal.

This could be nice.


	4. Misconstrued Acceptance

0.3

Breakfast has just ended and although I am not completely full, the strength and energy to face today's work seems a little easier, if my actions later today represent my feelings, then that would be easier. Gale is now washing the dishes, and here I am, feeling like dead weight. His adamant nature to not let me take over the duty only leaves me a reminiscent of a petulant child, luckily my mind only resembles that rather than my appearance, or he will have a shit-eating grin.

I ambled around the interior of the house, venturing to the spaces that are not familiar to me. The kitchen, now brightly lit with thanks to the sun, you can see the specks of dust hovering around, if you squint your eyes enough. The kitchen has a backdoor, with the window covered by a sheer baby blue curtain. Next to it situates a cupboard, with plates and china arranged neatly across its interior. It is nice and all, and the hospitality furnished here makes it all the more likeable. The running of the tap ceases and I turn to Gale who is now drying his wet hands and places the rag down beside the sink. He turns around and stares and me, bringing a slight heat to my cheeks.

I climb up the stairs, with my mind now yearning for a shower, a method of distraction I decide to use from that was in front of me. I shower and cleaned myself quickly drying myself in Gale's room, with his clothes still used by yours truly. I ball up my clothes, deciding that I will clean these when I get home later. I hear the splashing of water behind me, telling me that Gale must be showering right now. My mind starts to panic as I realize that he will be entering his room and he will be changing his clothes right here, in _this_ very room. Crap. I need to leave the room before he opens the door. I turn around and before my efforts could go into motion, the door opens and in comes a very half naked Gale, his lower half thankfully covered in with a pair of pants. I slowly gave a sigh of relief, glad of the cover up. His torso was glistening and shimmering, and it all ended when he wipes himself with the towel, ignoring my flustered face. I stood there, motionless and my eyes witnessing his defined body. He was not lean nor stocky, but fit definitely. All those days in the forest really pay off. It is almost impossible for anyone in District 12 to even look overweight due to the lack of food here, so the citizens here either end up underfed or fit like I see here before me. My days in the bakery only make me slightly stocky but certainly not as near-anorexic as most of the kids outside have. I guess they were not lying when they say that Gale could have any woman because of his physique, not that it matters anyway.

Right?

The torso was covered soon, much to my gratitude, and Gale gives me a warm smile that makes me heart tug in different directions. “I-I sh-should probably get home,” I stutter. Gale nods and brushes beside me to take a medium sized packed rucksack. He pats his hand onto my back before leaving the room, with me following suit. Gosh, the little things he does to my body.

We walk past the people, now void of the glares and worried expressions written on their faces. There are less people, probably working at this hour and children in school right now. The mothers are the ones staying at home and the Peacekeepers that patrolled the area have now been disbanded. The morning was bleak, like it has just went through the end of a rainy day, only without the rain and puddles tainting the ground before us. Gale and I did not say anything and probably a good thing too, for factors I have no idea why. Maybe it is because of the fact that I need to get my story straight when I see my mother later, who is probably – no scratch that – slate me for being gone for a night. Gale could be the perfect excuse, but then again, I am not the kind to put blame on people. If it is anybody's fault, it would be mine. I slept at the Meadow yesterday, and my carelessness led me to sleep way past the time I had intended to. Such is the life of Peeta Mellark, everyone.

We cross the invisible border within the district. I make it sound like it is a taboo to say that but I do not mean that explicitly. It is what everyone says and I, myself have gotten so used to listening it that it just sticks in my mind like glue. The Merchant was bare, as always and passing by the shop houses nearby brings me a wave of relief and we soon reach our destination; the bakery.

I opened the door, and was met with my father and brother's presence, who both gave a smile at my welcome. I nodded back at them, and I know that my mother is not here, much to my gratitude. Gale is behind me, and he gives the duo a wave, before splitting up to get browse and select the contents of the bakery that we are selling today. He takes his time, and by the time he picks a bread, I was already in an apron, and manning the counter while my brother helms the position of baking the food. I glance and stare at Gale while wiping the trays and filling them with the new baked goods on top of them. His structured hands that had faint scars make them look rough and calloused, which throws me off, because when he touched me with those same, exact hands, I felt a different kind of texture. Soft. I shake my head at the anomaly. His arms tightened as he extends them to grab a loaf of bread and my heart pounded slightly harder at the sight of the tension.

I push the trays aside when I see Gale coming in front of him and in hands were plenty, and I begin to worry whether he has enough to trade off for those. Excusing myself internally with the fact that he is a hunter did little to assuage the queasiness in my heart and negotiations are not allowed in this house, or my mother would punish me, as unwholesome as it sounds. He places 3 loafs of bread, several pastries such as eclairs, cupcakes and slices of cakes on the table, all enough to feed two starving families, but I reasoned myself once more that Gale has three siblings under the age of ten and a mother who looks dead beat, especially for his age and that is something I cannot dismiss easily. He places his bag on the wooden counter and rummage through it, removing the items out of the bag.

“I packaged these while you were still asleep,” he explains before placing the spoils of his bag. Two dead squirrels, three birds, a small bag filled with cut, lean meat and last but not least, some herbs placed carefully inside a small jar. My dad comes in and inspects the items used for trade. He nods them appreciatively with a smile and takes the loot into storage, giving me the okay to package his purchases. Taking out the paper bag and some small boxes from the shelf beneath the counter, I packed the baked items with care and handed them to Gale. He gave me a smile, packing the items into his bag and then tightening it, before slinging it over his shoulder, “I'll see you soon?” he asks, and I nodded wordlessly with a tight lip smile, mostly in view of the fact that my mother punishing me would probably ruin my chances of going to the Meadow. It is not like she is going to ground me or anything, anyhow. He smiles a bit more wide before turning around to leave the bakery. I did not realize that I have been holding my breath during his attendance. I exhaled once more, going into the kitchen with the least expectation of my next surprise; a slap on my face.

“Where have you been, young man!?” shrieks my mother. My dad stands behind me, his face contorted in a mixture of frustration and worry. Frustrated at my mother for having to deal this trivial of an issue and worry for the well being of myself having to go through this ordeal once more. I stand there without talking back, knowing that my attempts of winning this conversation would only fall on deaf ears and leave my attempts ineffective. She hits me once more, a slap to my head and god did that hurt when she does that without any signs of mercy and spouting out harsh words that could make a dent to both my pride and sensitivity. I let her have her fill of the day, as if she enjoys implanting fear to my mind, but only did little to terrify my life. I am already _too_ used to this occurrence. She rambles and mumbles off, as usual. Rye goes over to me and brings me to my room, clearly displeased for my mother's unethical behaviour. We walk up the stairs and enter my room, and I sit down on my bed. He goes off to the bathroom and grabs a small wet cloth and dabbed onto the bruises that was forming on my temple and forehead.

“How that woman became our mother is a mystery to us all,” he says in a hushed tone, with him too not wanting to tread on thin ice, “Are you okay?” he asks.

I nod, and he knows better than I do that I am completely used to the abuse that our mother provides us with, more towards me, truthfully.

“Where were you last night?” my brother asks.

“I was with Gale,” I reply simply.

“Gale? As in Gale Hawthorne?” he asks, with a surprise look and tone, “I didn't know that he knows you,”

“He doesn't,” I countered, “I was at the Meadow, alright? I was just there to relax after work and he offered me to stay with him and his family for the night. Believe me when I say I tried to refuse, but he wasn't letting me,” I reason. He stares at me, processing the story that I told to him. He is doubtful, but who can blame him? He knows that the Hawthornes and Mellarks have no such personal relationship, only business. They come in and offer their loots, and we, in return give them our goods. That is all. No underlying message or agenda behind our works. Nothing else.

Until now.

I will be lying if I say that Gale is nothing to me. That is pretty much out of the window, but my judgment is pretty much in clouds from the day he came in with a machete, and when he offered me to have dinner with his mother and he, himself. The way he touches me and the smile he gives me just changes my perspective of what I would think our relationship will become or end up to.

“If I say I was gay, will you hate me?” I blurt out, not giving much thought to my words. I turn to him and look at him in the eye for any signs of lie. Do not get me wrong, I may be a sociable person, but if a sociable person were to be good, one needs to detect any signs of faults and flaws when one person speaks. His blue eyes only tell me of his contemplation and the pursing of his lips make the expression only more crystal that he is still thinking of a proper comeback.

After a long pause, he finally says, “You're fucking Hawthorne?”

And boy, did I nearly have a heart attack hearing that.

“What? No! I'm not! Jesus, Rye. I'm just giving a hypothesis,” I retort.

“Yeah, well, you are, aren't you, Peeta? And guess what, it doesn't matter. Like dad always say, 'Times like these, we all need a bit of love',” he says. I divert my attention to the floor, clearing my thoughts on how such a short amount of time can lead one's life to.

Gosh, I am so screwed.

•

The day goes by just as usual, with nothing but a simple job as my punishment. My mom decides to put me in work, leaving Rye to do whatever he so chooses, forcing me to do another day job without any special privileges. Like there is any privileges in the first place coming from a woman like her. Whatever. I am just going through another day of work anyway, it is not like I have faced anything worse than this, right, I ask myself. Right?

I decorate the cake that Rye had baked before I came in with Gale. I use the piping bag filled with coloured cream and with precision, I push just enough amount of cream out of the bag and let my hands do the work. It is therapeutic that through the ordeals and obstacles throughout today, I am able to find something to distract myself besides walking about two kilometres away from my place, despite how saddening it is, in my opinion. The pattern the cream makes by its own fascinates and it is eudemonic just seeing the work coming to life.

I was not aware of the completion of my work when I finally finish decorating. It looks great, and I proudly place the bag down on the table. I set it on the displaying shelf and clean my hands, removing them of any traces of food colouring and excess whipping cream from the bag pipe. I head over to the counter and see Madge browsing through the store with her trademark basket. A few minutes later comes in Delly Cartwright, whose mother is a friend to Gale's mother, judging from the past conversation between Gale and his mother before leaving the house this morning. Huh. The two look at each other and gab about every possible topic they can think of. I stand behind the counter, my legs rooted like branch, waiting for their talk to end patiently and bring their selections to the counter. Mom and dad left the place to myself, while Rye and Wheat went off somewhere, probably to meet their friends, not that it bothers me. I kinda like being alone. Most of the time.

Delly Cartwright is wearing covered in a long dress and her yellowish hair ties to a bun. She is fairly lumpy, and that is probably the trademark of the description anyone can identify her with. I know that her family owns a shoe business a couple blocks away from the bakery and she is quite friendly to everyone, so they say. I have little interactions with her but from what I can gather, she was really an amiable person, a little too amiable, able to smile through the state of our lives and bringing this ray of sunshine in our lives, but that is just my opinion, and feel free to be as subjective as you want.

The duo finally finish their gabbing and go over to the counter, hands filled with baked goods. Delly was about to bring out her trades but Madge stops her, bringing money out and placing them on the counter. It is the end of the month, I realize, and shipments for stocks are due next week, meaning that we need to pay the Capitol with real money, ones that grow from trees, rather than baked goods. The only form of payment we give to the Capitol are coals and money, no matter how little it may seem be. However, if you have Madge Undersee with money squandered around for her use, things could change, as desperate as it may sound.

She places the bills on the counter with a smile, and I nod, bring the notes and some changes in, putting them in a glass jar before taking out some paper bags and small boxes for packaging. With proper care, I put the breads and cakes in their designated homes and give them to their new owner.

“So, Peeta? Word out there says that you spend time with Gale last night,” says Madge.

Ahh. So that is why the friendly attitude is there for. A gossip monger beneath the skin.

“Yes, I did,” I say with bluntness. She purses her lips, either trying to bring me into a situation that I know I will not feel comfortable in, or just I don't know. For what it is worth, she is giving more than just the benefit of the doubt.

“You guys never talk before,” says Delly innocently. That is true. We know every name in the district and that is pretty much it. How you choose to do with that information is all up to you.

“Things change,” I replied vaguely, not wanting to reveal too much since this occurrence is pretty much recent. The two girls give each other a look before saying their thank yous and leaving the store. Exhaling a sigh of relief, I enter the kitchen, only to see my dad sitting at the stool there.

“You're with the Hawthorne kid?” he asks unapologetically.

Somehow, telling Rye things can have their pros and cons.

Pro; He understands with compassion. Con; he tends to misconstrue informations.

“No, dad,” I reply honestly.

“Then what's with the whole gay thing you asked him?”

“Are you trying to say that you don't approve of it?” I defend.

“No,” he immediately returns, “I just didn't know you would be associating with someone like Gale. Last I check, you both weren't friends,” he explains. I nodded, pardoning his implications behind his interrogation.

Sighing, “I was at the Meadow, all right? It's where I relax. A week ago, Gale nearly hack me off with a machete and last night he wanted to make things up for me, so he invited me for dinner and because of the Peacekeepers, Gale insisted I spend the night,”

He nods, giving his best to apprehend the synopsis of my story, “So, you're not together?” I shake my head in denial, “Well, I don't mind if you were with him, just sayin',” he says, bringing my head to a drop and my cheeks flustered with two prominent red dots on each of my cheeks. He pats my shoulder and says, “Great talk,” clearly insinuating that he was feeling awkward as I am right now. As if he had just cleared this air of embarrassment.

“Can I go out, right now?” I ask.

“To the meadow?” he asks. I nod, no ulterior motive behind my request, “Just be safe, and I don't mean by, you know...”

I leave before I can even let him finish that dreadful sentence.


	5. Settle Down & Fluster

0.4

I have not seen Gale for the past week and a half.

It is not like I care about it, but I expected him to stick to his words when he says he will see me soon. Gosh, why do I feel like such a girl over one request. Shaking my head in disapproval over my false hope, I rinse the trays and containers in the sink, my eyes laser focused on the outside, where children are gambolling around, having a whale of time. I do not why I have a habit of doing this, but they are just having fun, before they turn twelve, which is where it is a new group's to be reaped and a group where they escape potential death and live long years of life filled with boredom and pure monotony. For those who have been reaped in the past, I sort of envy them – which one would call me an idiot, no doubt – for having a sense of heightened adventure before their unfortunate and timely death. Thinning my lips at the thought, I look down and hasten my efforts, cleaning the wares as quickly as possible before my thoughts leave me an imprint of a hand on my face, courtesy of my mothers. With dough sticking around the edges of the trays, you would think this is easy.

I did not realize my efforts leave me in my woolgathering once more until I was shaken by the sounds of thunder rumbling and the darkening of the clouds. Crap, it is going to rain. I dry my hands almost immediately when I place the last tray beside the sink and run off to the clothing lines, where the clothes are hung by my brother. I grab them, ignoring the cloth pegs that were holding the clothes in place dropping on the ground, for all I know the clothes are a mandatory requirement. I place them in a basket, thankful when I hear the downpour moments after I had collected the clothes. I stare at the outside, scrutinizing the children and some passerby running for shelter, and a familiar tree. I remember the difficult days afterthe mine explosion occurred. It was around five when I was collecting the baked breads and unfortunately, collected some burnt ones. I would have hid them if not for my mother's entrance to the kitchen. She whacked my head and being 14 at that time, puberty really can do things to your mind, especially when the brain completely becomes unstable in a vulnerable way. And my mother uses the chance to fill it with more tremor than the usual. Luckily, that only brought more bravery to me when I finally had the courage to run away from home to discover my usual spot in the district.

I remember being led out of the house, where she had her hand griped onto my wrist and grousing as well as lambasting me with harsh words, with some hits on the head to the side. She screamed and told me to throw them away to the pigs outside, and entered the house with a slam of the door. I grimaced at the bread, with my mind reasoning that these burnt ones are only burned on the outside, edible for dinner. For someone with authority, she lacks the sense to think and I see little reason why we have to give them away to pigs who already had their fill with their own food in their troughs. I split them and throw them to the pigs, until I saw her.

Katniss Everdeen.

She was sitting underneath an oak tree, her face filled with grimace and misery. With her father gone due to the explosions, her whole life had turned 180. She lost her father, a sister with needs that are more prominent than hers and a mother who is currently facing long term trauma over the loss of her beloved husband. Most of the victims' families were left starving and all we could do is give false pity. What is worse is when none of the officials from the capitol offer any compensations for the families, which is no surprise, since who would want to cater to an outlying district? Certainly not the Capitol, even if we grovel to our knees, they would not give in.

Anyway, I saw her and she was hugging her body, trying to fight off the cold temperature, and the torrent that poured down sky high made it difficult for anyone to return home without any illnesses coming in as a consequence. I looked down at the last bread in my hand, my mind retrospecting to my philosophy on why the breads were better off to the humans than these greedy little pigs. So, I threw it, almost wincing at my move as I should have gone down in the rain to give it to her, and entered the house, hoping that my action would serve her greater purposes towards life. I glanced outside my window and remember how hopeful and desperate she was when she finally got a hold on that bread, like it was the key to her survival.

And it was. Next thing I knew, my father was praising her hunting abilities. Illegal, but still impressive as he likes to muse. The squirrels are bereft of any eyes brought me a slide pride to my move, like as if it was me who turned her life, although I may not brag about it. I did not expect her to come in to the bakery anyway, and give me her thanks. Courteousness is out of the window in district 12 and their selfishness is only driven purely by our famine. The only thing I now know is that Primrose is the only one that visits the bakery with her politeness and kindness her main virtues. She would bring cheese to the place, to my surprise since cheese is a rarity and found out that she had been domesticating a goat, providing them with milk and butter and better yet, cheese. Seems like the Everdeens' life were getting better sans their mother, who rarely speaks to anybody. Guess the trauma really did a lot to her.

I entered the room and decide to forgo dinner, not caring if my hunger is going to be a pain in the ass. I lay on my bed, reflecting on my past actions that may one day culminate into something big and worthwhile. I do not mind if my kindness has been taken for granted, I care that there is kindness within them to begin with.

So I sleep.

•

A week has gone and only four days remain before the Reaping begins, where blood samples are taken and Tesserae are claimed by the people. How it works is pretty complex, if one does not pay attention. You request, in trade for more names put in. You can ask as much as you want, but your chances of being called only increases dangerously. But in District 12, it cannot be helped. Our families are hungry and we need to feed them. They give as grain, bread and milk and we give them our names, simple as that. Ingenious but devious. It makes things come with a price and it usually does, but this stretches the mark even longer. The Capitol never leave happy endings to us. To me, they always bring death to their name and they enjoy it, ignorantly so.

I sit down on the grassy patch, a new spot to call my own, and I begin to think like I always do every year since I was 12, “Will I be picked?”. I managed to escape death 3 times, and I cannot help but shiver when I hear the correspondent and representative of District 12 announce my name in her chirpy tone that just brings mockery to our plight. I hit the ground repeatedly with the hell of my palm, trying to fight off those dark thoughts that circulate my mind. They usually do a form of celebration during the night of the Reaping, where they celebrate their children's chance to live while two families cry their eyes out and wonder, if not pray to some imaginary being on how are they going to trudge through the terrifying days that will come later. Will they cry when people shower their sympathies to them? Will they become recluse and eventually move on and accept their son or daughter's impending death? Will they commit suicide to join their children who just crossed over or in desperation and depression? Gosh, that sounded dark real quick. It will be worse, I presume, when they receive the body bag of their child's mangled body.

“So this is where you are,” says a voice behind me, bringing my thoughts to a grinding halt. I look up and see the warm smile that I almost miss in the span of two weeks and a half. His rucksack slung onto his shoulder, filled with various equipments and spoils. They must have gotten a lot. Reaping season is always the best time to get great meals from. Weird. He sits down beside me and brings out a big slice of cheese, to which he cuts them into cubes, offering one to me. I take it, muttering a soft thanks and take a nibble out of it, my appetite not really present.

“Reaping's coming soon,” I say, not that it matters anyway. He hums knowingly, which is better than hearing it from him.

“Who do you think will be picked?” he asks.

I nudged his elbow, giving him a faux scowl at the question. “Don't say that. No one wants to be in that position. It's mean,”

“I would not mind having the Undersee girl's name being called,” he continues, ignoring my reprimanding. I narrowed my eyes in disapproval, appalled at the declaration on cutting someone's life short, “I hate her,”

“Why?” I cannot help but ask.

“She's rich,” he simply replies. That is a preposterous reason. What does wealth have to do with anything?

“She has no idea how hard life is, and knowing her, she knows little about the hardships we live through,” he answers, as if he had heard my thoughts. I was silenced by the answer, not knowing what to say. I can defend her but I will not, since I have little of a relationship with her to begin with, “She gossips about people like us, you know?” I did not refute that, knowing that she had asked me about our little non-sexual rendezvous a few weeks back.

“I might get in,” I say, changing the subject.

“You won't,” he says confidently.

“How would you know?” I say with gritted teeth, “I could get lucky,”

“You won't Peeta. I know it. I have put my names in 42 times and you know that I have a higher chance of getting in than you,”

“But you'll die,” I state obviously, my tone hampered.

“That's the goal,” he says. There is a thick silence between out pause. The conversation became almost unbearable for me to even hear and what is worse is that Gale is really blunt with his words, something I cannot deny of his personality.

“I don't want you to die,” I say, my voice barely reaching the hearing level I can sense him looking at me with a warm smile plastered on my face as if he was touched by my confession. I did not turn to look at him, my eyes finding the rocks and grassy terrains interesting. I feel a warm hand placed on my shoulder, pushing me to turn at his direction. His face nears towards me and my confusion did not do anything to help me better understand the situation. He placed his lips on mine, and I fluttered my eyes shut. What is going on here?

His lips moved against mine, motioning them to relax the tension that I had no idea I was throwing it into one small feature of my face. I relax my lips and I can feel the his lips stretching into a smile, allowing himself to coax my lips more with his and I soon feel the wet tongue of his swiping the bottom of my top lip and the wet contact makes me moan out of no control. With his game now favouring his side and wishes, he plunges the tongue into me, my senses allowing his control going full bombard mode to me. He grins with the kiss and pushes me further down, reclining my back to feel the grass and caging my body with his, discounting my chances of running away and trust me, I have no plans on running away.

He places his forearms on to the ground and my hands involuntarily smoothed over his covered shoulders, gathering the arousal from our heated tongue battle. They slither up to his neck and locked with enough firmness to make sure he does not pull back. I can feel his soft yet calloused, rough looking hands found comfort in the ashy blond hair of mind, twisting and locking them between his fingers, tugging them a bit to engender more moans of worshipping and approval from me. It sounds like a bunch of garbage to how I am describing this, but believe me, when has anyone manage to give a concise abstract about their first kiss?

I can feel his body pressing up to mine, but the weight impacted onto my body is not felt throughout our making out. It feels like my brain is disclaiming his weight, the fact that out tongue duet is the only thing of focal point makes it even harder to care about his body weight even thought one would say that he is suffocating me. He seems so gentle despite the rough appearance of his. Like if you could give once glance at him, you would describe him as this attractive man with rough fully emboldening his status as a man who is rough with in his duties. But that description is completely stripped off when you kiss him, the gentleness reminiscent of an apple pie fully hard and crusty on the outside by soft and gentle in your mouth the moment you chew on the inside. It is like hard chocolate balls centre filled with a liquid one that just speaks divine to your mind.

That is what I am feeling with the kiss right now.

Gale may look rough but his rough demeanour is only the illusion that people are so deceived by. From the way he touches me, they are all gentle, but firm when he finds the moment to be so. The way he moves his tongue against mine. The way he grips my hair. All of them speak gentleness.

He pulls back and softly caresses my hair, enthralled by this supposed beauty that I do not see, have. He smiles with wist and fascination. I stare at him, taking in every detail of his look. The grey eyes, the scruff that is now threatening to grow, his brunette hair that shines, displaying a some shades of bright brown under the sunlight.

“I'm sorry, for picking such a morbid time to say it,” he says. He looks apologetic at the confession, almost guilty of his long absence.

“No worries. I would be crazy or something...,” my voice trails off, clearly speechless and unable to have a coherent sentence to even voice out. Smiling at my dumbstruck look, he places another kiss onto my lips, which was followed by another. And another. And I cannot help but think.

Why do these great moments always happen at the wrong time?

•

I decide to follow Gale back home, where the evening has already made the bright sky dark, dimming the brightness that shone ad presented the place without any boundaries. People are not standing outside their houses anymore, except for some, with a nonchalant expression written on their faces this time. The houses that they are standing outside now will soon be shut and protected by the owners from the Peacekeepers, protecting them from the potential raid that will soon take place in a few hours.

Gale's house situates and looks the same from my last visit, only this time, less clothes are hung on the line, and the shoes that once littered the porch are now neatly arranged. Gale enters and once again, I hesitate to go in, thinking that all of the events that spiralled up to here now, feels like a figment of my imagination. I keep asking myself on why am I not waking up from this dream yet, only to take me more than a while to realize that this is not one at all.

And that scares me.

“Peet?” says Gale with a worried look on his face. From the way he looks at me, I begin to think why did I look like to earn such display of emotion, only to find out that I stand there like some nutcracker, standing rigid to the ground. I shake my head, and dismiss my hesitation and enter the house with shoes removed and Gale entering the kitchen. I see his siblings playing with their toys and I smile at the sight. Blissfully ignorant of the reality outside there. That would be a nice change, though.

“Peeta!” says Gale's mother from the kitchen. She gives me a hug, one I am not expecting at all, and I return it, albeit awkwardly. She pulls back with her wrinkled hands firmly gripping my shoulders and inspect me for any unattractive qualities that can ruin this sentimental moment. “You've been well, have you?” she says. I nod mutely at the question, sweeping any sign of worry that can potential leak from two grown ups. “We're having stew tonight. Care to join in?” I reply my agreement, knowing that Gale will not give me room to even leave if I even try. He is too stubborn for a refusal, I jokingly thought.

We all eat on the table, with conversations coming all in by the siblings, or Vick, Rory and Posy as Gale had informed me before dinner had started. Gale, being good natured as always, chuckles on the stories that were passed around, and I smile in response to the stories that they told us, just as a means to humour them. It is a nice departure from all the upsetting features of our lives. A nice, kiddish banter that seems so facetious.

We finish our foods and Gale's mother goes over to tuck their children to bed while I help Gale to bring the dishes to the sick, allowing his job to wash them set into motion. I bring over the last set of bowls and place them into the sink, where he plants a quick chaste kiss on my lips, bringing my cheeks to a bright shade of pink. I look outside the window and see the Peacekeepers huddled into one small group, probably discussing their patrolling plan. I peer them, wondering what kind of threat can the citizens of District 12 impose to the Peacekeeper. Sometimes I wonder if they only patrol here more rather than the activities happening around the Seam.

I feel Gale's hands around my waist, pulling me close, and places his chin on top of my head, tucking it without hurting it. “They don't trust us,” he says.

“I don't think trust is in their moral compass,” I say, which is really true. For all I know, the kindness that we display and the fear that can almost be smelled by any predator is not enough for them to even see how frail we are to even rebel against their regime. I can hear his hum and the vibration of his throat reverberating from his throat to my head.

“Come on, let's get to bed before they shoot our heads off for staring at them,” he suggests. I nod, not that they notice us staring at us, but his idea on them shooting at us is not far off. There are some Peacekeepers who will not blink when it comes to landing death with just one move and staring at them brings this indirect inferiority, even though we are not to be honest. I think anyone in District 12 would be considered nuts if they are ever to enlist themselves for the job. Landing death to people is something unimaginable to anybody here. It will only ruin us more than bring us peace.

He hands me his clothes once more when we entered his room. I remember the clothes that he first handed to me. I cannot believe I forgot to return them to him. I make a mental note to return them once I get home and enter the bathroom downstairs, where the floor is thankfully covered with asphalt, or that would defeat the purpose of anyone attempting to have a shower. The hard surface meets my legs and I shiver at the cold contact. I close the door and disrobe, folding my clothes into a nice pile so that they will not get wet. I rinse myself, shivering and gasping at the cold liquid hitting my skin. I can feel the goosebumps forming on my arms and legs.

I finally finish my time in the showers and I soon wear the clothes Gale gave me, with them being slightly baggy as usual but I feel little discomfort in part of my efforts not to. I leave the bathroom with my clothes in my hand, and go up to Gale's bedroom. He leaves his room for a moment, leaving his space all to myself. I see the small tables adorned with sets of nets, equipments and ropes that were made of vines. I inspect them, holding the small hand made knife between my hand. From the serration, I can feel the sharpness of the blade. Every blade I see on the table were carefully sharpened and placed neatly for future use.

I move over to the net that is placed on the floor, with my legs crossed and looking at the intricate texture of the vines that can easily break tightly tied to each other, creating one unit. Everything Gale does here are filled with craft and utilitarian value, all of which can prove useful should there be any danger coming in, or if it is just the sole purpose of hunting.

I walk over to the window, and with the candle in my hands, I see a Peacekeeper walking with his flashlight, walking up to the junction that leads outside to the main street. One Peacekeeper never means safety because for all I know, another Peacekeeper or two may just be outside out of plain sight.

“Ready for bed?” Gale says behind me and I turn, seeing him all dressed in fresh clothes, his hair damp with water. His clothes were balled in his hands, and he tosses them to one side, earning a mental disapproval at the action, but I hold back my tongue, knowing that this room does not belong to me, so whatever Gale does here is his business, not mine, much to my displeasure.

He lays on the bed, with his hand patting the bed and beckoning me to join him. I blow the candle, turning the light source here before joining him. The only thing that shines in the room is the moonlight, where it penetrates through the window. I lay down, after settling the candle down, joining him of what may be the last time I will ever feel home. As much as I am told not to worry since someone like myself has taken less Tesserae as Gale or my brothers did, the worry does not escape me too easily. I face the wall, with hopes that Gale does not see or frown at my mind worrying about something that I have one out of a hundred kind of chance to be picked to the arena of death.

I feel his hands snake around my side, his lips latching to every possible imaginary spot he finds over my exposed skin. I gasp and shiver at the feeling, completely unprepared for his attack by his slow assail of kisses. He hums at as he mouths the nape of my neck, clearly enjoying, or at least in my opinion, getting used to venting his arousal all to one man. Here I thought that he likes Katniss, or am I wrong?

I can try to voice out my doubts but the sprinkles that he is decorating my skin prove too much for me to even formulate a sentence, let alone words to stop him. District 12 is not fond of intimate relationships but from what I can assume, he seems experienced with every move he makes, like the way he holds my torso possessively to the way he makes sure that his hand slithers down low enough to the hem of his shirt that I am wearing, and I can feel myself shutting down at with all of this attack.

He stops, which brings me both relief and displeasure. Like a great food that is so unhealthy to eat, but addicting to not even take a single bite out of that food. He leaves his hand at the hem of my shirt and I can feel his breath fanning across the divots of my shoulders, and he hums before I hear the steady breathing. I am thankful that he knows where boundaries lie, because this clearly shows that I do not need to tell him to do something. He knows it himself. I feel the hunger for venting his arousal being suppressed with might and if I can read Gale's mind, he is probably whining right now, being a bit petulant on who the tides are turning to my side rather than his.

“Good night,” I muster and is met with silence. I do not expect a reply from him anyway, and even if he does, it will make me more flustered than before and my voice was too low for an octave for the human ear to hear anyway.


	6. Showstopper

0.5

Just one more day to Reaping.

The Justice Building has already been prepped up for the day. A day where Peacekeepers and the representative of District 12, along with the escorts of the Capitol will have a splendiferous moment watching the long awaited 74th Annual Hunger Games. The Reaping is already exciting for them to watch, as it is the day where every thing sets into motion for President Snow, the main instigator of the Games.

The last visit at Gale's house, with once again, his insistence being the main player here, brought me the sight of his mother ironing the baby blue shirts and dress that will be worn on the day of the Reaping. During the Reaping is when everyone wears a single coloured clothing and we chose baby blue. Not really a voted consensus, just a tradition, where all our misery and fright is all pent up into one insignificant colour. Every district wears a different colour, with the exception of the Quarter Quell, which will be held next year, where everyone is allowed to wear casually. Not like the Peacekeepers or the Capitol officials ordered us to, it is just the Quarter Quell usually is a coin flip. Either the victors are reused or new batches from the citizens are selected. The announcement usually makes the cut before any dress code does. Gale seems assured that I will not get, as idealistic as it is. The soothing kisses he peppers me manage to quell the worry only by a smidge, but my fears never amount to that much from the beginning. Gale's mother looks glad that Gale has managed to find someone to confide in, even though I have never been open so far with out “relationship”.

Nothing has been official, and if I can be frank, which I will, I do not want to know. Personally, it scares the crap out of me of what eventual answer if I ask regarding this bond Gale and I have. Gale is quite secretive about it too, but not as much as I am. I remember Vick asking him whether I was his boyfriend and I could not help but blush when he asked that. He replied vaguely, which is pretty much something I still cannot decipher, but to Vick, it seemed to compute well for his age. An age I wish I was in right now at this moment, for two different reasons if one is smart enough to read between the lines. I know that Rory, from what I had found, is actually 13 this year – which I couldn't tell due to his stature, has so far taken two Tesserae, so his chances of getting picked is more minimal than mine, due to two factors. One; I have taken at least a few Tesseraes and two; my fear and thoughts are becoming my biggest enemies.

And for some unknown reason, they are already winning.

Madge has become slightly annoying, with her intrusive questions. She has so far changed my opinion about her, but nothing amounted to the level of Gale's. She kept asking me about him and myself, being patient as ever, never denied nor disclosed any information and keep my mouth shut, which is my greatest ability that I value highly. She pressures me, which earned her a dirty look from Rye and I cannot help but feel extremely honoured to have someone as protective as he is. He never like Madge anyway and was not afraid to shut her questions as well threatening to shoo her out of the store if necessary. Somehow, this will be the last I ever have to see her like that.

Rye and Wheat have so far been respectful of my orientation and decision on not disclosing anything – since I am pretty sure I am out of the loop with all this due to both my fear and my abstinence from asking or searching for the answer to what is going between me and Gale – as well as dad, and both are not intrusive as Madge is, to which I am forever glad for. I honestly thought she is a humble girl, but with her snoopy nature making its' appearance, I rather not stay close to her to find out what other nature this lady can reveal to me. I sense they know by now, knowing how intuitive they are but never vocalized their thoughts. Gale came yesterday and ordered some breads over some squirrels to which my dad seemed extremely pleased with the spoils he uncovered yesterday. I will never miss that smile he gave me before he left yesterday, and warms my heart that he is at least decent to not give my dad an aneurysm.

I daydream, not really giving much effort into the dough I am kneading right now. My anxiety builds up, my eyes close momentarily at the thought of something unimaginable to turn out. With Rye over 18, and Wheat with only a year left before he experiences freedom, I feel more sick about things. I have a bruise on my hip, with large thanks to my mother who did not seemed to show mercy about letting me cut some slack. My dad and brothers seemed really miffed at my mother's unfair treatment and who wouldn't be? I'm still surprised at how mind and body seems to tolerate her indecency.

I finish job for the day, and as much as the Meadow will prove of great use as a stress reliever, the anxiety and the energy I gave into performing my job really got into me, both physically and emotionally. I go up to my room and make sure that my baby blue dress shirt – that only speaks extreme fear just by its' appearance – is ironed. Once I complete that work, I hang my shirt and place it in the wardrobe, storing it. I lay on my bed, forgoing my dinner. My appetite has pretty much been defenestrated since yesterday and any means of hunger can only be reclaimed if I escape momentary death or... Something. Just something. Anything. Anything but my name called. I begin to fear my name more than ever.

I sleep, letting my fears being numbed by silence and the temporary quiescence of my body.

•

I wake up, reluctantly though and go through my daily proceedings. Shower, getting dressed, the usual. I cannot begin to express how nervous I am. The way I am wringing my hands and wrists, how my shirts feel wrinkled even though they are not. How my mind is completely disillusioned by a simple feeling. Anxiety. I can probably grow eye bags on demand if possible. How my actions are completely in disarray as I did not bother to even tidy my bed like I always do. The wrinkling of the sheets is quite metaphoric really, if I do say so myself. I subconsciously want it to be that way so that it will tell me that there is a bed that I will return to. A haven where I can come back to. I leave it there, strongly loyal to my decision. My hair is now slicked back and my baby blue shirt all buttoned up. All that is left to do is go downstairs and leave.

I walk out of the room and head downstairs, where all my family members are dressed up in the same colour scheme. My mother, looking displeased as always, which mind as well be her main article of clothing by itself, looks at me with disgust and huffs.

“Ready to go, son?” my dad asks with a cheery tone, understanding my fear and attempting to mitigate it. Great job, so far. Wheat and Rye nod in response, and we all leave and we meet the presence of the citizens, donned in baby blue, walking to the Justice Building without proper order. They walk freely, some taking their time, some hasting to get to the Justice Building, with my impression of them wanting to get this day over with. Some were holding hands assuring each other that today will be kind to them, if only that makes me any better if I do the same. I see some with their heads hung low. I can see some putting a brave mask on their faces, with their minds thoroughly convincing them that this day is the determinant of their temporarily fortified will. All ages, regardless of skin or colour of hair and eyes, were under a different spell of emotions.

I see the Everdeens. Well, not together, besides Katniss and her sister, Primrose, holding hands whilst on their way there. I know that Prim is as afraid as I am, with her hand fully and unwaveringly attached to Katniss', hoping that the confidence of her sister will transmute slowly to her, bringing her the ability that her confidence is a diguise that even the most frightened hearts will be able to wear. I walk with my brothers, my parents behind us. We soon arrive at the Justice Building in the span of a few minutes.

The Building is decorated with the Panem flag, with red being its' main colour and two yellow stripes on its' left and right of each flag. The symbol wears a bird, with stars and stripes fashioning its' class. I see some kids already lining up for registration and others already settled at their positions, all categorized by gender and height difference. The Peacekeepers are guarding every possible areas that speak danger of any citizen attempting to break a rule, and the mayor along with his colleagues all dressed in grey. I see the registration table, with two Peacekeepers sitting down with their hands folding in a fashioned pattern, gesticulating the child to donate – more like pull their hands and give a cursory cut, blood and a contraption used to scan for verification. Parents all lined up to one side, forced to witness their child being the so called lucky contender to helm this year's prize, which is most unlikely. Projectors and screens were placed strategically for everyone's view and there is a huge line in the middle for the unlucky person to walk through when called, with everyone's sympathetic eyes looking at them with sadness. Lastly, there are two bowls being placed on top of a steel pedestal, with a bunch of white papers all folded and taped filling its' interior.

The lines were separated into two. I take one, while Wheat takes the other. He smiles at me, with an attempt to assure my spirit that nothing will happen, exempting the two children's life being called and sent to be taken away, and I do not mean by the Capitol for preparation. The line recedes and I get closer to the Peacekeeper with a book placed in front of them, with nothing but blank lines and a small box filled with different shades of red liquid marring the discoloured printing.

“Hand,” the Peacekeeper says with his hand motioning to come closer. I pull out my right hand, and feel a laser cut cutting my finger. I hiss in slight pain and he pushes my finger down to the paper, smearing the small blank space. He gets a cotton wool dabbed in antibiotics and covers the cut finger, telling me in a polite tone to line up with the other kids. I guess he does not like sending innocent kids to their death.

I line up and stare at the Justice Building, waiting for the pedestrian speech by the mayor to start and the superfluous video of our country's history to play. I stand in between two boys, none of them I know too well and turn to see the tall boys standing a few metres behind us. I turn and see Gale's striking face, and he turns to me, giving a sharp nod and a smile at me. I hear the Mayor Undersee's speech and my lips pursed to the side, unable to defuse my senses on hearing the same lines every year since my first involuntary enlistment.

“… and now, please welcome, Miss Effie Trinket,” No one clapped at her presence, and she does not seem fazed by the lack of attention that is given to her entrance. She taps on the microphone with little care and the soft, piercing screech that follows after that bring a slight harshness to our ears.

She is wearing pink. And by wearing, more like coated in pink. Pink ribbons on her head, platinum blond hair, pale that almost looks a sick kind of skin, and pink lips laced with gloss on her lips. She is wearing a fuchsia pink corset with her heels, you guessed it, pink and her gloves black. She smiles at the people, not paying attention to the sad, and bored expressions of the citizens. I wait, with my chest puffing and deflating with every intake of calming breath I can possible inhale.

I feel no calm from the air whatsoever. It is all just…tense.

“Welcome! Welcome!” she starts, “Welcome to the Reaping of the 74th Hunger Games. First off, we have a special gift for us brought all the way from the Capitol,” she continues with clarity. Everyone's head turn to the screen and we see the recording where it speaks of the history that led up to the first Hunger Games. The Treaty of Treason, and the simple rule of how the Games actually goes by. I can see Effie mouthing to every word the recorded President Snow is saying, her eyes closed and hands clasped in a praying manner, as if he is some god or figure that every man and woman should put their faith on.

As the clip ended with its' dramatic symphony, she smiles with eyes opened and comments on how she loves every single clip of it, which is disgusting.

“And now, to begin, let us start with the ladies,” she walks over to a glass bowl, perched onto a small table as its' pedestal. She circles the air, trying to get a whiff of some invisible scent on where her hands should be dipped in. She finally dips her leather black gloved clad hand into the bowl and fishes out a piece of folded paper. The silence is unbearable and you can possibly hear a pin drop. She walks back to the microphone, her heels making sounds as she makes her way to it.

She unfolds it, and I tell you, with silence this thick, you can practically hear the unfolding of the paper and she takes a deep breath before announcing the female's name.

“Primrose Everdeen,”

And there. No silence. Just shuffling of feet as I see a small group spreading themselves apart, treating Katniss' sister like she has some form of incurable disease. I see her head, a shock expression written on it. She walks, hesitantly and the path clears more, treating her more of an outcast than having someone to offer her a hug. My mouth is agape, feeling more afraid for her than pity. How can someone, who is just fresh into her first Reaping get the most unluckiest fate that one can ever set her upon? That is just… illogical.

I can hear Effie's voice chanting her, dismissing her diffidence and fear that she is channelling with every footstep. She finally reaches the centre of the runway, with Peacekeepers ready to escort her to the stage where Effie is currently standing on. Before she can go further, I hear a piercing, distressed voice.

“Prim!” I turn and see Katniss' trademark braid and immediately asks, what in the world is she up to? She is going to make a scene if she is shrieking in distress. I see the Peacekeepers halting her advances, quelling her strength before she goes catatonic. And to my biggest surprise is hearing her volunteer, which makes my head go numb. I hear this inward screeching and I cannot begin to feel anything but confusion. What in the world just happened?

“In a matter of mad turn of events,” Mad is an understatement there, Effie, “District 12 has our very first volunteer. What's your name, dear?” she asks.

“Katniss Everdeen,” she answers, with voice filled with remorse over her impulsive action.

“I bet my hat that was your sister, wasn't it?” Effie asks, her voice showing hints of false affection over Katniss, and I hear her soft regretful yes towards the question, and my eyes shut. Everyone raises their hand in a three finger fashion, as opposed to obeying Effie's suggestion of applauding Katniss' desperation to saving her only sister. I can see Effie's face frowning at the sight before her, not really into the symbol they display before her. It fits, if she can ever get the memo. The symbol represents someone of true worth leaving, our signature symbol customary for us District 12. She deserves this symbol, because without her, half of these children will probably die of starvation and dehydration and in other cases, she has provided most of the livestock that we all lack from the woods.

“And now, for the boys,” Crap. I am so into fearing and being bemused by the whole situation that I forgot the Reaping is still ongoing. She dips her hand inside the glass bowl on her right, and grabs a piece of paper. She goes to the microphone, and announces the name I never thought my fear will ever amount to its' zenith reality.

My name.

I do not expect anyone volunteering my place anyway. Not even Wheat, since he and I both know that despite how different we are, one thing is for sure that we both will never come out alive. I can feel the earth slightly shuffling and hear the crumbling and dragging of shoes when they spread themselves far from me, like I have some infectious disease. I walk, with heavy, fearful footsteps and followed the Peacekeepers to the stage with my mind still in a trance. Next thing I know is that I am already on the stage with Katniss giving me a stare that speaks of sadness and revelation? My mouth is agape just thinking over how my messed up luck prove to be my demise. Her grey eyes latched onto me before we both shake hands, as prompted by Effie.

I hear her announcement and we are then escorted by the Peacekeepers with Effie's hand on my back. She can be a mother figure, if not for the holier-than-thou aspect of the Capitol lifestyle she is maintaining. We both separate, with family and close friends visiting to send them off as their last words. I enter a room, filled with upper class items. A bed, possibly belonging to one of the Peacekeeper or the members of the Undersee family. Everything is in mahogany, a material that the Capitol values highly of. There is a map of Panem posted on the wall, along with assortments of books with different coloured hardcovers, all arranged in the bookshelf. I like to assume that these items are for me to vent my anger and frustration over my refusal to accept what just happened in less than half an hour ago, but most likely these are for the user that sleeps here. There is a window there, and I can see the crowd dispersing, some lining up to the Peacekeeper, possibly for Tesseraes. Some stay, and some return home, relieved of their luck. I blink once then repeatedly, endeavouring to filter and buffer the idea of what will happen in the course of probably a month. I sit on the bed, with my fingers too stiff to even wring or play games with each other.

I hear the door open and my head turn forthwith to the source and see my family members coming in, my mother being the last one. I do not get a chance to say anything when I am meet tight hugs all from my brothers. I can hear their muffled assurance, although they know it is pointless for them to do so. I see my mother's face stoic, indifferent to today's events and she seems unsympathetic. Typical.

“At least we have one less mouth to feed. Look on the bright side, District 12 might finally have a winner,” I hear my mother mumble. If I have microscopic eyes, I can probably see the hackles of my brother's neck that I am peering from my head view rise, but for now, my imagination is able to run free to think that. He releases me and I can see him seething at my mother's irreverent attitude. My dad is not one to dismiss that easily as I see him looking him in disgust, wondering what kind of woman has she morphed into. Looks like my absence will have some drama.

They leave and all the men in my family gave their last words and hugs, and I am now alone. Their given time has already been expended and I sit down once more, not really having the guts to leave the place with some reckless bravado. I glance at every little detail this room have, my mind utilizing its choice to take in every little detail before my time runs out. I hear the door open and expect the Peacekeeper to take me to my train ride, but I see Gale coming in, his worried expression is the first thing that I register.

He hugs me, and I try to hug back, but only comes out as a halfhearted one, my emotions completely bereft of and the depression seeping in like overflowing water being blocked out by a door. No words come out, and it is a silence I can for once, appreciate. He pulls back and studies my face, and I can tell the fear and numbness has already long permeated on both the inside and outside of my psyche.

“You're strong. Just use your strength as your main weapon,” he says. I nod, not really having a lot of options to even think how strength can be my only source of victory here. He probably has more advices for Katniss, knowing that he is closer to her than I, and her skills have been long honed by Gale himself. I do not blame him, I mean. I have met him less than a couple months ago, it does not mean anything.

He kisses me, slowly, as if this kiss he is savouring would be his last. I do nothing, because of how deadened I am. I try to kiss back, and can only purse my lips to match his, but it feels off, mostly due to my numbness taking over even the smallest of senses, like my fingertips to my toe folding over my other one. I just feel tense.

I hear the Peacekeeper coming in, and unlike my family, he seems to retaliate slightly when they grab his shoulders, bringing him out of the room, and the last thing I hear is him with a subtle frantic voice, “You can win this, Peeta!” and the door shuts.

I sit down once more, wishing I have the indifference towards my life to even say the same for myself.

•

Effie waits downstairs. The visiting hours has long ended and the transportation, a train to be exact, has been prepared for our use. I see Katniss, and not once does she make eye contact towards us or Effie. The Peacekeeper brings the three of us to a carriage and the sky outside has turned gloomy. A pantomime of expression today. We enter, with me sitting the right side at the back of the carriage. Effie sits in the middle and I can smell the pungent scent of her perfume. She must have drowned herself in perfume prior to her arrival.

I look outside, and see the path been cleared for our departure. The citizens are standing by the side, doing nothing but stare at us. I wish I was among them. Just that is all I wish. Effie is the only one that is filling the silence. Her conversations consists of the transportation, the offers that we will be experiencing, and the food that we will no doubt ravish and gorge even with our reluctance. She even goes on about the amenities that are provided to us. Something about crystal chandeliers and mahogany tables, somewhere between the lines of that. As much as I want to feel elated about it, the situation that Katniss and I are currently foreseeing is not something that we want to have a whale of a time of.

The train is guarded by Peacekeepers, and I can see my brothers and dad standing by the side, giving me a tight lipped smile at my direction. Effie, for now, is our caretaker, much to my chagrin to accept it, but as blissfully unaware her personality is towards the reality of how gory this game is, she seems more of a mother figure, albeit, a ditzy one. Sorry, Effie.

We enter the train and I am met with extreme awe when I see the interior. It is nothing I have, in my wildest imagination, envisioned it to be. The interior is completely an upper class space. I, and if I can say on behalf for Katniss, are feel like a couple of oddities in this space, where the floor is completely carpeted, tables made out of mahogany. Bars that provide an assortment of liquor, one I will not be venturing anytime soon and trays filled with pastries and dishes all prepped for our consumption. The chairs and sofas are all cleaned and the crystal chandelier is no joke as Effie had mentioned.

“250 miles and hour and you can barely feel a thing,” says Effie. She's got that right. I do not realize the train left its platform and the speed is just amazing. It feels almost weightless. I sit down on the chair, with Katniss next to me. We still have our clothes donned, her blue dress still spotless and her facial expression blank as usual. She compliments more, something about the momentary privilege that we will be enjoying, as pitying as she surprisingly sounds. I can tell that beneath the thick makeup, she seems disconcerted, if I can pinpoint correctly, of sending countless children to their deaths. I cannot help but feel sad for her.

“I'm going to get Haymitch. He's probably in the bar car,” she says as she stands up, leaving us alone. I am surprised that Haymitch Abernathy actually complied to even mentor us. I almost believe that no one wants to mentor us, since District 12 only has one living victor. Many described him as a hopeless drunkard. One that never fails to live one day without having a nice booze to fill his day. So much so that I begin to think that it is like water for him, and being drunk is actually him being sober. I ask Katniss whether she knows him and I am met with irritable silence. First time does not really matter to me, but being ignored the second is something I cannot tolerate. I admonish her for being someone unable to provide much help even when asked, and she turns her head, her expression commixed with nuances of confusion, anger and regret. I do not know what is revolving around her head, and for some reason, I do not feel like wasting my energy to dig in that stubborn archive. She is stubborn, that is something I can really be sure of. Stubborn but smart. Stubborn but protective. Stubborn but impulsive.

I'm cut off by the door sliding, where a man clad in a navy blue, long cashmere cardigan over some sleeping clothes. He looks sick, but more on the drunk side. He looks sickly drunk. His long dirty blond hair reaches just barely his chin, his blue eyes look dull with alcohol seeping in his capillaries and I wonder how much has he drank. He is holding a glass, with a bottle of alcohol in the other. He walks in, gimping with every step he takes towards the bar. He grabs a bottle, not really wondering what type of alcohol he just acquired and goes over to a silver bucket, only to find nothing inside.

“Where's the ice?” he says to no one in particular. A long pause comes in, and knowing Katniss will never reply to someone who is merely a lost cause, I answer with a stuttered, “I don't know,”. He shrugs with an understanding yet annoyed look, and slams the lid of the bucket like it was damned for use.

He sits down in front of us and like always, a thick silence follows through. He pours himself a glass, and drink himself without stopping. I, not wanting to waste time, begin asking him of his plans to train us, only to be cut off by him.

“What's the rush, man?” he says, his tone puzzled.

I stare at him, not really understanding why he seems so calm and relaxed and worse, so uninterested of the situation that will materialize in a few weeks.

“Usually, people like you aren't so, excited for this,”

I reach out for him, quitting his drinking to at least sober himself up, only to be met by his foot that lands square foot on my chest. It holds me down, and he holds hi glass in the air in defense, not wanting to let go of such a great drink. I tense, and he looks slightly annoyed at my advance, not appreciating the rough swivelling of the liquid in his glass. He tsks at of his orientation, “I almost spilled on these brand _new_ pants, thanks to you,”

He lowers his foot down, and I sit, maintaining my body at the same angle. “You wanna know the best way to survive this game?” he asks while staring at his glass in pensive. We both do not answer, knowing that the answer is not an objective question. It can range from having honed skills to having great body resistance to the setting of the arena. Nobody knows what setting the arena holds, as it always holds the biggest surprise.

That is always the thing we may not know about. For all I can say, my first step may prove my downfall.

He leans in, and with the clearest blue eyes, I see the philosophy gleaming in his eyes, saying, “Stay alive,”

•

I enter Haymitch's room, clearly adamant on receiving tips from the man's mind, despite Katniss' protest towards the idea, the first I hear her talk throughout this trip. For both our sakes, I guess. As a baker, I don't really believe her hunting skills will be the only thing that can save us. More to her, but I still stand by my point. I enter and I see Haymitch laying down, with a survival knife in his hand, for what purpose I do not know. He glances at me, laughing at my nature for being persistent to him

“You know, I give you credit,” he says before chuckling, “You two may have a chance of living and possibly winning this waste of time entertainment,”

“How can you tell?” I ask, evidently not convinced on how my lack of fighting skills and Katniss' stubbornness can turn such tides in the game. He walks to me, his face unashamedly nearing mine, his warm breath closing in.

“Hmm, manly. Looks like someone is attracted to men, here,” he muses. My mind is the equivalent of gears, if I can assume the activity going on in my head, I will say one of the cogs have malfunction by his astute deduction. He circles around me, poking me at irregular times, humming in approval of the bulk of my body. “Not bad. I see you're quite brave with words. You seem to know what you're saying and I say that can be a worthy arsenal for the dunderheads called the Capitol citizens, and something else,” he proposes, leaving some things clear, some things ambiguous, “I think,” he starts, surprisingly serious which is almost impossible for drunkards to string sentences without having hiccups, “the Capitol will love you,” he ends, “Alright, boy. I will see you soon. Let the woman take you to your room,”

•

Effie escorts me, with her pipping voice being the centre of attention. It seems every piece of furniture that this carriage has is of new fascination to her, and her attempts to feel enraptured by it never falters one second. I even ask myself, “Don't they have this in the Capitol?” but I guess the theatricality is all for me, her tributes that have grown so attached to in the course of less that 4 hours. I do not mind, as my mind is on mouth lock down, keeping my words minimal and reserved for the questions rather than sparking trivial conversations and clishmaclavers. Effie never fails to have some gossips to fill her time.

I enter my new cargo, where I will be sleeping for the next 2 days as Effie tells me when we arrive in the Capitol. A delay I really never felt more than happy to feel. The room was adorned with a chandelier, which makes me wonder if the bathroom has its own. I see a bed, bigger than mine and I remember how I left mine at home, with all its sheets wrinkled and pillows not fluffed out. The wardrobe is by the side, clothes that I will explore soon enough. I'm beginning to feel a little annoyed with my shirt tucked but untucking it in front of her will probably make her shake her head in negative. She leaves the room to myself and I explore more of its interior. I run my hands around the bed sheet, feeling the fabric and damn, it is soft here. I walk to the bathroom, and boy did I find a windfall here.

A bathtub. A luxury so little get to experience. I speak on behalf of District 12 that this luxury is extremely scarce. Except for Haymitch, since Victors live with their stuff. I walk inside, and the door shuts. My body moves out of my accord, as my hands starts to move to my button of my shirt, and my need to feel the warm temperature of the water becomes more apparent. I pull my shirt our of the pants, not waiting to unbuckle the belt to verify my patience. I remove the goddamn shirt and walk straight to the buttons. The most rudimental thing I understand from all the button are the ones that have the cold and hot written in capitalized form, and I press both, not really wanting to explore too much heat. The water runs and I unbuckle my belt and the clanging of the belt and whoosh when my pants drop down to my ankles can be heard while I hear the ceaseless running of the tap. I hear the tap stop and wow, did I not expect this thing to stop on its own. I remove my underwear and the warm waft of air emanating from the tub can be felt from my standpoint. I run my hands into the water, testing it and my mouth moans at the warm touch. I can certainly get used to this. I wonder what other things the Capitol have. If I am going to die in the arena, at least I die with the experiences few kids would die to have, without the killing sense of being picked in the Hunger Games, of course. Metaphorically.

I enter my foot into the tub and the other with my hands, used as support. I soon crouch down with my legs laying in the tub and my back leaning against the side of the tub. I moan once more, when all of my body sans my head finally submerges into the warm water.

I hear the swivelling of the water and I relax in the tub, my dark thoughts completely out of the window. How quickly did my thoughts go complete 180 when I enter the tub, and the clothes that I had just disrobed seem meaningless to me never came until I lay inside the bathtub. It seems as if I now don't really care about my eventual death. Makes me laugh, too.

The Capitol always know how to make your days seem less bleak before it does. What a showstopper they are.


	7. Luxury

0.6

Night fell and I am now on my bed, waiting glancing at the window, where nothing bringing light source pass by, as if I can see the tress being under a blanket of darkness. The bath was amazing and am slightly disappointed at the clothes that are provided in the wardrobe. Most of the clothes were too extravagant, in terms of colours and glitter, I began to wonder how Capital citizens even sleep in. Certainly not in these clothes with their makeups still painted on their faces. Fortunately, there are clothes that were suitable for nightwear and I wear clothes that were as soft as cashmere and a cardigan that cover my sleeves, protecting me from the cold that this train seemed to have no mercy of adjusting on. I wonder if there's any dial for this function, but so far my attempts for looking one has so far gone fruitless. I leave the air conditioner switched to full blast, and have a cardigan to compensate my problems.

Effie called us for dinner, where the tables has been prepped with food laid out. I wonder where are the chefs that bring these food. Were these prep-cooked? Capitol technology seems too advanced even for the habitants of District 12 can ever afford. It baffles me, but nonetheless, my hunger is something I need to satiate and food is the only conventional method to do so. I eat, with Effie around. I would ask where Katniss and Haymitch are, but then again, Haymitch is too drunk and Katniss is probably brooding about today's events to even stomach real food. Effie and I are the only one at the table, with her table etiquette well worn on her sleeves. I, myself try to mimic her movements, hoping that I don't embarrass myself by being one of the kids whom, despite living in a remote district, eats with a form of untrained grace and by chance hope to impress that my feeble and honest attempt is enough to not get a head turn from a group of Capitol people. Effie so far has not admonished me for my table manners, and I begin to think whether it's a good thing or not. I hold the fork with my left and the knife in the other, trying to cut my food with patient determination, and eventually praised myself for having being able to get myself a small portion of the meal that I'm currently eating. I look down and wondered what function is there on putting my napkin on my lap, until I see some gravy and some liquid marring the cream yellow fabric. I finally understand. Great application of ideas, I think.

I wonder what Gale would think about this life, if I do come back telling him about this whole Capitol trip. Surely he will accept it, right?

Probably not, now that I think about him in that manner. He hates Madge, and she's rich, and the Capitol's rich and I don't think that's the only reason he would disagree about my story. I shake my head at the thought and continue eating my food. Gale would be happy if he's living somewhere that is free of authority, senseless killing, and wealth that changes people into becoming aloof.

“So, Peeta,” pipes Effie, “What do you think of this so far?”

What do I think? About being mutilated by kids who probably don't mind killing other kids who have no desire to be killed in a matter few weeks, and then being sent back home where they will be forgotten by the public, with no memorial for these “brave” and “courageous” souls to face through their undeserving death? “I think the foods great, Effie,” I reply, not wanting to paint a picture to someone who is blissfully ignorant to the idea behind killing someone.

She smiles, and we begin talking about the foods, where she ensures that the food in the Capitol is far better than what we are eating here. I didn't complain, mostly because I have no idea what kind of discernment can I gain from by having food that were manufactured by the same place that these people are now having.

“I know how you people don't really like this idea of The Hunger Games, but at least you'll enjoy this meal,” she says, with her hope completely thrown out of my mind. I nod, just to humour her and make sure that she's smart enough to take that into a positive note and continue to finish my meal, with her insistence of asking me to finish almost all of the food. An option that I feel is extremely detrimental if I ever want to survive the upcoming games.

I return to my cargo, passing by Katniss's and Haymitch's rooms, not really wondering what benefit can I gain for heckling them to have a bite of something. I'm sure the food will stay there until Katniss gets hungry. I hope.

The television remote is on the table, and I pick it up and see the yearly interview hosted by Caeser Flickerman, who as usual in his cheerful self, interview the Gamemaker, Seneca Crane. I know him. He was the one that ran the Games for four years now. He looks young, with blue eyes and hair looking shiny and slick, all thanks to the Capitol stylists, no doubt. His moustache has always made him stand out from the rest of the Capitol people. Unlike most scruffs, his one is intricately trimmed and shave to precision into a swirly pattern on the side of his cheekbones. Eccentric, yes but clearly not a trend anyone's living up to.

I hear their interview, about how Seneca has managed to craft a style for each new games, and there he goes, acting so philosophical about his progress and his intentions of doing so, to which I see no difference in. From the past games that I loath seeing, I only manage to surmise that you could pick any random place, be it a forest or a lake and dump 24 children to their deaths without batting an eye. Seneca then goes on about the stunning difference of this year's games, particularly about the participation from a volunteer that an outlying district. He didn't mention from who, and I see no understanding of why he had to omit that part out knowing that every tribute, volunteer or not, was disseminated nationally to all big screens after their respective Reaping. _Interesting,_ was the word that Seneca described for this year's games. I look down on my sheets, where I feel extremely disconcerted by the whole interview, where they seemed unfazed by the whole concept. Is murder considered a serious tradition to all of the Capitol? From the way they glorify it, I guess it is.

The broadcast changes to where Caeser Flickerman and Claudius Templesmith are discussing the past Hunger Games, which is their own version of an homage to them. They do not care to censor any violence that the images show and took a step further by commenting how _beautiful_ the death was. How the terrains and background was ingenious and the tributes being resourceful of using rubble, the nature or the dangers of the place as being their main source of victory. The blood and gore that came out of these people were gruesome, and I didn't realize how gruesome the 73 rd Hunger Games was when they showcased every tribute's death, one by one, and with at least five minutes to even come up with their own commentaries and awe with levity towards their _impressive_ deaths. Discombobulating.

I turn the television off, not really wanting to have the images expanding my imagination of how I will die. I know I will die, but having a scenario of how I will die, never mind. I do not need the slide shows to give them some vicarious way of satisfaction. I look around, with the facilities around here not really providing me any form of entertainment. I feel lonely, that's what I can say, for sure. I lay on my bed, and wrap myself with the blanket, hoping that tomorrow will be kinder, with a please on the side.

•

I wake up and today is the day we should be arriving at the Capitol. How will my reaction be towards the appearance? Will it be disgust? Will it be awe? Will it be too shocked until I forgot what my reason of being there for is? I blink finally for the first time at the array of questions, my answers all left blank like one of those bi-annual tests they have in school where you cannot answer the questions. None of them require any objective answers.

I get up and Effie comes in, with her expression turn into a pleased one when she sees my awakened state. She instructs me to get up and take my bath and then join her and Haymitch for breakfast, to which I proceed to heed them. She also adds the part where I have to be in my district clothes before leaving the room and I guess her mood will be a good one seeing that my punctual state of mind has set into motion. It's still 7 in the morning and it is usually the time I wake up, and knowing that breakfast will start this early only proves that our destination is coming closer and closer. I get up, throwing the blankets away to one side, freeing my legs of the soft comfort and ponder how things will go from now on.

Capitol. People that will scream their heads off. Activities that I have no idea what they will be doing as a way of preparation. And then the Hunger Games.

Breathe in, breathe out. I can survive this day. I can.

I stand up finally, with my conscience slightly motivated. I walk to the window and see the train never stopping at all and the trees that we passed by have finally become mountains. I immediately conclude that the mountains are near the upper districts, and to get to the Capitol, the train will need to go through the mountains in order to reach there. Okay. The mountains are tall, that's something you can't deny. I see some waterfalls and lakes that are both large and small, with people less than 10 fleet before my eyes in a flash. Effie wasn't kidding about the speed of the train exceeding the normal speed limit and barely feeling a thing. I wonder what happens if there is a stone impeding the way here. Will we feel a bump or some form of turbulence?

I walk to the bathroom and removed my clothes, with my decision locked on using the shower. I never used a shower, since the closest coming up to shower was grabbing a small pail filled with water and then dumping it all over my head and body. I remove my clothes, as usual and the buttons laid out on the wall like murals, just make me feel like an interloping dyslexic. I observe them and almost feel afraid to even touch them seeing the ones marked with letters. Either they are marked because of scent or because they are not functioning properly both makes me lower one eye in confusion. I hesitantly touch the red one and I can feel something click, immediately awakening my reflexes, as I prepare my naked body towards something I cannot predict from just a shift of my body like a marionette. I touch another, a pale blue one and sure enough another click comes by, and then downpour of liquid coming down. The gelid contact of water alarms me and make me gasp as the water is frigid cold. I fraught for another button, anything to change this cold temperature. I touch a darker blue one, and feel the water turning into a warmer feeling but still cold. I touch the red one that I pressed, and sure enough the temperature turn lukewarm, which I give a gasp of relief because that is the last button I will ever want to press for any form of adjustment.

I turn off the shower, pressing the ones I did all over again. The pouring ended and I leave the bathroom with a towel wrapped around my waist, a little more confidently this time since there is no one spying on me. Usually in Gale's or mine, I consciously wear my clothes before leaving the bathroom, making sure that no one will gape or probe my body when I leave. I see my clothes being laid on a chair, neatly done and ironed which made me wonder who laid it there. Shaking my head of the question, I pat every morsel and inch of my body dry, not really want to feel any wetness even after wearing the clothes. I wear my clothes and look myself in the mirror hoping that my appearance is passable to the others' eyes. The only difference between yesterday and today is my hair. My hair is still damp, and more free and less slicked from the Reaping. Okay, now for breakfast.

I walk past the other rooms, which are probably vacant by now and see Haymitch and Effie, both doing two completely different things. Effie is now on her chair, assessing her face with the mirror on her palm, outstretched for the best angle possible. She smiles when she looks at her appearance, and I can't help but roll my eyes for being _that_ vain. Haymitch on the other hand is being served by a lady, with makeup that looks slightly emo, which is a trend to the Capitol these days, with Effie's agreement, even though her style does not resonate that. Her hair is in a bun and she looks like a weird attendant or something in the likes of that. She pours coffee in his cup, his attention not caring of her presence and his mouth and head not moving to indicate how thankful he is.

I walk in, clearly now assured that nothing implicit will need my complicity. The door slides open and Effie smiles at my neat appearance, clearly happy that I do not need to be told of how I should look. I smile back in reply, and then join Haymitch at the dining table, with him giving a head jerk in my presence. I sit down, and putting the napkin on my lap like last night, and eat with him in silence for the first few minutes. The clanking of the utensils, like the knife dipping into the jam jar and hearing the metal part hitting the glass to the knife or fork placed onto the plate for just a little while, are the only things you can hear during our meal (as well as Effie's fascination towards her makeup).

“So, how do we win this thing?” I ask Haymitch, with more hope this time, seeing that yesterday we have both agreed that I can be of great instrument to him. I won't back away from my promises that he has in store for me, so it is only fair that he returns the same favour for me.

He purses his lips, with his hands still gripping the knife and fork, his mind calculative on how he should answer the question. I was about to repeat my question when he suddenly opens his mouth, and then closes it, and I stare at him, my hands too not moving in motion. Finally, with a deep breath, he moves his hands and answers with, “Just stay alive,”.

I spent almost a couple of minutes to hear three words? But that doesn't stop there though, “If it's like a desert kind of area, then water will be scarce, unless you have stamina and patience to dig up some water or walk a million miles just to finally meet water, but I doubt the Gamekeepers would let you walk away from the nearest tribute. The next thing you see a disaster that comes out of nowhere, is where the Gamekeepers want you close to the nearest tribute,” he explains. I bite the cut up toast, nodding at the concept. So, basically even if I go far to hide, the Gamekeepers will do their darndest to make sure that I will not be able to far.

“Also, if it were a cold place, whether it be the real cold place or night time. Fire is out of the option,” he explains. I look at him in confusion, when I finally hear Katniss' voice overtaking Haymitch's.

“What's out of option?” she asks, her face still placid and aloof.

“Joy. Join in and have some toast,” he asks, “Pass me the marmalade, would you dear? Your friend here just asked what is the best way to live through this,”

“How do you live through this?” asks Katniss, the marmalade jar still not moving from her side to his. I can feel the tension – an unwanted one at that – building up in the dining area and I cannot help but feel that this is completely unnecessary. Haymitch will give the answer, and I feel that Katniss is not pressing him at an agitated state.

“Let me have some food, alright?” he stares at her, frustrated with her arrogance and brash nature. I continue chewing my food, and let the argument continue, knowing that despite Haymitch come from both a little immoral and wise, I can definitely say that he underestimates Katniss' determination. I don't really think she knows of her hobby every day and her contribution to the district. Katniss places a knife in between Haymitch's approaching hand to the marmalade jar. I back out, clearly not expecting the silent ambush. I can hear the Effie exclaiming on how the table was made of mahogany and as comical the line is, the shock plastered on Haymitch's face was priceless. He takes the knife out, praising her for her silent approach and all three strikes out of his mental image.

“Fine, you want to know how to stay alive?” he asks, his mind now resolute on not leaving us both with the benefit of the doubt, “You get sponsors. So, let's say you are starving or injured or even out of arrows,” so he does know of Katniss' activities, “then comes a parachute, where even a match, or a survival knife,” which I see on the table now that I look at it, “or even iodine, that is requisite, for diluting even the murkiest of water can mean the difference that can turn the tables,” he eats the bread now lathered with marmalade, “and you sweetheart, you're not really up to a great start,” Katniss' eyes widen slightly at the explanation, not really into making impression of others. For all I know, Katniss can pass as a recluse, seeing that the only people in her social circle are Gale, Prim and Madge, but both don't really have a close one as she does with Gale. She isn't as sociable as her sister Prim, and the reluctance gleam brightly in her eyes, and I know how much of a hard time she is going to have without any sponsors being in her back pocket, essentially speaking.

The train turns dark suddenly, with the lights still on, just the outside going on dark mode like a flip of a switch. Effie squeals as she says, “We are here!” and the train leaves the tunnel, where I can see a huge water bank overlooking the outside. I stand up and neared my body to the window, where my scope has been zoomed by dramatic results. The place is… a loss of words, that's for starters. My mouth is agape for looking at the view, simply amazed by the architecture of the buildings. The crystal blue water is just beautiful and I wonder what technology is used to keep the resplendence maintained. I look back at Katniss, who seemed unimpressed at my so called change of devotion – which I don't think it's true at all, seeing how far fetch her judgmental look gave course – not expressing the same sentiment towards my happiness. Haymitch continues eating, seemed to be used for 24 years with the experience. He seemed slightly upset when the train finally arrives at the docking station, where it's pooled with people of different colours of clothing, cheering with fervent excitement. Their faces were beaming and exuberance are easily pinpointed from their looks. Their hands waving at our direction and to be honest, the welcome given for District 12 is the most surprising. Who would have thought that an outlying district would get the such a response. Completely in awe, I wave back at them with a smile written on my face and the roaring becomes louder and their actions more animated.

But for something this transitional, I truly forgot what the smiles and cheering are actually for.

•

“Wonderful. Wonderful,” Effie comments as she walks us past the crowd. Their hands pet our shoulders, and some even fainted, which cause me to worry if they are ever paid for such exaggeration of expressions, and their voices saying how privilege they are to meet, and even spare a few words to their tributes, to which I understand, since I think the real honour is being one of the many spectators watching us die right before their naked eye. I can feel their slight jostles and pushes but nothing too drastic to the point of us falling to the floor, if dramatics is excluded from the picture. Effie responds to the crowd back with the same fervor, with her hands too petting their outfits on how 'trendy' they seem to look, and I wonder if the same reception is ever given when she's not representing us or any tributes during the recess after each Hunger Games. I wonder how any of them are chosen to even escort us.

We walk away from the crowd, where soon less and less people became visible to us as we walk into a building where I see other tributes too, with their own home clothing, and faces of discomfort, awe and even smug paint their faces. I can feel the shiver when I think about the smug faces, seeing them being slightly more presentable than the rest of us. I conclude that they are from the upper districts, where sully looks become a primary facial expression for them.

Haymitch separates from us and I see him joining the other tributes who welcome him with forlorn looks, well, except for the ones from the upper district. They seem… proud. Proud with their tributes and that's when things click.

They volunteered. The tributes volunteer, meaning that there is some form of confidence bred in their looks and the way they scan us makes only brings more satisfaction when they witness the retreating looks embossed on their faces. I can see one, with brunette hair and with a snarling kind of face chuckling at the other tributes when they turn their heads away upon seeing him. I didn't turn away from him, and only scanned the others, watching the other tributes, but before I can even make my assessment about the tributes, I get dragged away by Effie, who ushers me excitedly to a room made for only District 12 tributes. The room is lit fairly bright and in the room is separated into two columns, one for Katniss and one for myself. I move and I'm instructed by a lady and a man, both wearing scrubs and hair and makeup looking horrid, as if they went through the wrong side of the bed. They instruct me, with a lazy tone, to disrobe and wear the same pale blue scrubs as they are, without any traces of garments underneath them. The fact that I'm stripping right in front of them without leaving, only makes things even more awkward. They gave me knowing look on my face and left, leaving me enough space to unclothe and then wear the said scrubs.

I wear the scrubs and I lay on the table, where they return with looks of approval at the folded clothes that I spend my time for them. I didn't think of wanting them to be burdened with unnecessary works, so with their pleased looks, they continued their work by hosing my down with water, cleaning any untraceable dirt. They didn't seem to look disgusted, probably because their experience have armoured their disgust quite well. Once that's done, they take tweezers from the table, with them holding my face down, telling me that what they're doing will leave a stinging pain before plucking my eyebrows, which the pain is only bearable, in my opinion.

For Capitol people, they are actually quite nonchalant and nice, even though their moral discernment is quite off the normal target. The closest I see them looking mad is the hygiene part. I know that District 12 isn't the most sanitary of all districts, but then again, which district hits that mark? The Capitol is the only one that fulfil that criterion. If I can think the closest to a clean district, it would be 1, since their time has been spent in cleaning every piece of jewellery and gem they sell. District 2 wouldn't hit that mark since they spend so much time doing blacksmith and sweating themselves out playing their man made byproducts.

I feel something hot, and my legs flinch at the contact, and feel a soft piece of paper rubbing over the warm and wham I squeak in pain, bringing some chuckles from the two stylists. I have just been waxed. Without warning, and gosh I feel like one should be given. At least I manage to entertain them for the moment, that's what I can at least admit from the whole experience.

Once all of their duties are completed, they tell me that my lead stylist will be coming to meet me. I lay there, motionless and stare at the fluorescent light bulb installed above me, waiting for the door to slide, where my stylist will consult me throughout the entire time. I move this time, not really going to adhere to their instructions since not like my body hair will be growing back _that_ fast in a matter of seconds. I hope.

I walk around and see the sanitized utensils and objects laid out systematically for use. I would grab them but when I remember the stylist that catered to me wore gloves, I refrain my fingers by an inch and eventually half a metre later when I decided not to touch any of them. I sit back down, not really in the mood for exploring a room bare of any items for me to peruse. The life of a tribute is to strip them off any excitement. The real excitement is at the arena, if anyone's asking. For now, let there be boredom.

I hear the door slide open and comes in a dark skin lady wearing black that shows off her collarbones and shoulder. She has her lips coloured with dark colouring, and her makeup smokey. Alluring, and seductive if that's what she's intending. Her hair reaches no limits as it looks frizzy but coloured, making them fade from one colour to another. The amount of artificial items used on her face and hair really is a lot to stomach. She's dressed in black, with a blazer covering the electric blue blouse and with a pencil skirt to compliment her entire attire. She walks in with a smile and her attention is only fixated to one person.

Myself.

“Hello, I'm Portia,” she says, with her hand outstretched, “I'll be your personal stylist for the entire time,” I shake her head without speaking any words to her. She seems nice, but then again, since when anyone in the Capitol aren't nice? I'll just humour her, as far as I've done with everyone from the Capitol here. “So, Peeta,” at least I skip the main part of the introduction to her, “I know that my partner, Cinna will be taking care of Katniss and we both have come to the concurrence that most stylist don't,” that certainly peak my interest.

“Remember last year's costume at the Tribute Parade?” Do I remember it? The better question will be more like 'Did I forget the Tribute Parade last year?'. Long story short, the stylist covered last year's tributes with nothing but coal, since the goal of every Tribute Parade is to instill pride to our district. So much pride going on there. I wonder if the stylists last year were even passionate in their job, and the promise that Portia say brings some promise. “Well, I don't want to go through the atrocity of such details,”

I still have not said a word to Portia, mostly because her sentences are completed by her and of knowledge by herself. At least she has taken some words out of _my_ mouth, but regardless grateful of the intrusion, for I really do not know what to answer, even with charm up by a few notches. Charm is essential in conversations, but deemed useless if you have no one knows what are you even talking about. That would be considered being out of it.

She leads me out of the room, where I see Katniss, her attention focused to a dark skinned man, with his hair shaved and his face bare of any makeup, just that his eyes are touched with a simple golden eyeliner. His clothes are simple, black and fitting, nothing too flashy or revealing. Out of all the people I have seen in the Capitol, he's so far the most simplistic person I've seen in appearance terms. Almost like he's not preening about his looks or anything. Seems humble. He looks at me, and introduces himself as Cinna, with his voice in a velvety smooth tone. I shake his hand, and the rest is just business for Katniss and I.

Portia and Cinna lead us to the mannequins, where we see suits, made out of one of the most, if not, the shiniest and slick leather, with collars bigger than the usual. Nothing too flashy about it, either, and I wonder what angle are they trying to pull of. I ask myself how can a pair of leather pantsuit can make a huge impression towards the crowd tonight at the Tribute Parade. It almost makes us feel like the there's no real put effort placed for us.

“I hope you're not afraid of fire,” says Cinna.

•

I have no issues with fire.

Working in the bakery, my family meets heat at out fingertips, everyday. Literally. Our oven never works as it wants to really. Like a five year old, it sometimes has a mind of its own, where, by its own volition, the fire in it will be amped up more than par for the course. The hardships of being a baker, sometime.

Portia and Cinna lead us out, with Portia having her winning, professional smile masked as she passes by the entire crowd, and Cinna looking unperturbed by the whole attention. None of us talked on the way, and honestly, I'm relieved to not force myself of having chats with them. From what I can tell, both of them do not really favour the whole sending-innocent-kids-to-their-death thing, and that's really nice to feel, especially from people who watch us die with so much passion and fervent.

We are escorted to a horse carriage, and I can see the other tributes in their respective clothing and costumes. Portia was right, they are all dressed according to the theme of their district, horribly though. I don't need to be from the Capitol to know that, honestly. The upper district, don't seem to mind really, particularly from 1. The female tribute seemed to preen in her fuchsia coloured fur costume. She is checking her face on the mirror, and seemed to be satisfied with her vanity. The male tribute seemed disinterested with how he looked, with my guess that his determination of winning being his main goal from this game. Understandable, work before reaping the benefits. I know that District 1 focuses on jewellery and materialism, and I am really not sure how pink fur exaggerated that theme. Maybe I'll understand, but I'll be dead by then.

District 2 are dressed in gold gladiator, and I can see the male tribute looking like a real Adonis. A man that girls will scream their lungs out for. He is so dashing and he stares at us with firm eyes locked onto our way. I look back into it and my body turns numb with his blue eyes. Cold ones too, and I cannot help but feel both aroused and terrified at the same time. Like he could be someone who's possessive but murderous in one body. I feel a shrill of terror just thinking what will transpire if I putatively talk to another guy. He could either abuse, kill me or the guy I allegedly talk to, as a means of warning future men that I'm taken.

We both are still eye locked, and I see his lips, thin but sensual, twitching upwards before turning away. I let out a breath, that I didn't realize that I've been holding all this while. Guess the fear was really evident and I think the lip twitch that threatened his demeanour to smile was due to the fear pooled to the brim in my eyes. I think he's going to enjoy pulling some of my strings. God, help me with this.

Cinna marches towards us, with some unidentifiable things in his hands. I cannot read them, mostly because his fingers are covering the entirety of what he's holding. He is also holding a sturdy matchstick. A long one, for what purpose I have no idea.

“Alright, this is how it is going to go,” he holds the matchstick and lights it up with the unidentifiable object – a lighter now – and it emits out a blue flame, bringing our eyes to enhanced curiosity, “Now this isn't real, I will apply the gel,” Portia shows a container, “and we will both apply it on your costume, then when the parade starts, the costume will light up. Don't worry, it's not real. It's synthetic,”

“Looks pretty real to me,” I say, which I feel like I need a slap for my slow ability to catch up.

“That's the idea,” replies Cinna honestly, his expression seemed unfazed by my obviousness. The two work on the last details of our costume.

I stare at the horses in jealousy. They were being fed with sugar cubes, groomed by the Capitol. How easy their lives are, only used for this day, and this day only. They don't have to worry about having their lives cut off short. They have their entire life span to themselves, where they can find their mate, get mated and then have offspring, and live to see their inheritance grow and flourish 'til the day they die. Stay in the same place and be burdened of small jobs. The worst kind of situation that any animal will relate with us is being hunted off for food, like the ones in the forest.

Their eternal version of Hunger Games. Where everyone is a prey and a predator. A danger to each other. These ones are lucky, no need to be stranded. Sheltered, cared for with love, whether deformed or not. They say be free like a bird, but freedom is nothing but transgression and a fritter of life if you walk around without a conscience.

But a freedom worth having than being here.

•

“Nicely done,” praises Effie, “Oh, the crowds will pay much attention to you this year. I have a really good feeling that sponsors will be the main weapon of your games,” She escorts us down from the carriage. The crowd was electrified by our fiery – pun intended – entrance, with their heads screaming and wooing with passion and excitement. Roses were thrown and I wondered if any were askance of the roses not burning when some phased through the intangible, illusionary element. I know that the Capitol is gullible, but surely they cannot be that gullible.

“Nicely done,” says Haymitch, dressed in navy blue, and this time without his alcohol around his hands. I contemplate on his honesty because of his temporary sobriety.

“You sure your tributes should be near flames?” asks Katniss, hoping to bring something out of Haymitch.

“ _Fake_ flames? Are you sur-” he stares at the other side, his cohesion clearly interrupted by his sight. We turn around and stare at the same guy in gold from 2. He stares at us with the selfsame cold, blue eyes, his face contorting to something like jealousy and anger, but also amusement.

My mind is still in his visionary grip when I feel Haymitch's hand clapping onto my shoulder, “Let's get you to your place,” he says. I swear I could hear him say, “Wouldn't want them hearing us,”

We enter the elevator, with Effie ecstatic of showing us our new living quarters, with her assurances and hopes confirmed when she adds, “Because you're both from 12, you get the penthouse, the highest floor,”

The place is grand, that's for sure. Futuristic, and a complete 180 transition from the lives that we were raised in. Stairs leading to what I assume are individual bedrooms, and the kitchen, on a pedestal with green chairs to complement the silver metal table. My mouth hangs open unsurprisingly, because what we were living in that was made of woods, comes in a new abode with everything that an inmate of 12 would dream to refurbish it to. This is definitely too much to grasp on, and something I don't think I will ever adjust to too comfortably.

“Why don't Portia take you to your room, Peeta and I will take Katniss to hers? Shower and then we'll have dinner,” Effie instructs, knocking my awed expression out of my face. We are still clad in the leather suit and I frankly cannot wait to be out of it. Certainly something I have no intention of wearing on a routine.

Portia and I climb down the stairs, and we climb up another, the one that will take me to my room. For now. It is nice, with a screen that is almost pasted to the wall, and a bed, possibly a water one, to sleep on. Portia leaves me to my needs, and I nod as a gesture of thanks. I skim my hands on the bed, feeling the soft – almost ethereal – fabric on my hand. It was definitely better than the one in the train, by small margins.

I see the towel rack and enter the bathroom, bigger this time, with enough space to remove my leather suit. I place the towel down and unclothe my skin like suit, my body giving a nice sort of sigh when it makes contact with the conditioned air. I finally got out of the suit and enter the cubicles and meet my worst enemy.

The wall of buttons for my shower and bath. I sigh as I press the button to my inevitable gasping and shrieking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since my classes have left me sort of parched this week, I wrote my works bit by bit for the days, so at least there's something I can finish during the weekend.  
> Enjoy!


	8. Admittance

0.7

The shower was... Well, describing it as harrowing would be the understatement of the century. If only Portia had given me a tutorial on the usage of the shower, I would have saved a lot of time and screamed less that intended.

Effie ushers us to dinner, with plates neatly and gently placed on the glass table by people with god-awful makeup used on their faces.

“They're called Avoxes, Peeta,” informs Portia. So these are the infamous Avoxes. I wouldn't say I didn't know them. All I know is that they have no tongues. Capitol took their right to speak for reason I have no knowledge of to this day. The other thing I know is that they have lost all privileges to speak and live their whole life in servitude to the Capitol. A far better crime than being killed. Forget being killed at a young age, I would rather have my tongue cut off and be revoked of my speaking rights than having to be forced to kill innocent children, unless you count children who find pleasure through this crime innocent. I wonder what did they do to receive such punishment. Surely a law, because you can't seriously send someone to the Arena of Death for breaking a law. It's either that or just suicide. Or running away to the woods. Whatever works.

Haymitch is already sitting there, sipping a clear blue unknown liquid in his system. He looks at us, before eating the meal, as if our presence doesn't hinder him from his motive to eat before us. Effie tuts disapprovingly before ushering Katniss and I to the table, where I take my seat next to her. An Avox, pours a glass full of the blue liquid and walks away with no words or clattering of his footsteps. I take the glass in my hand and sniff the liquid, giving my mind a sense of what the liquid might be before drinking it. The liquid's odorless, and it doesn't calm my nerves to find out what it is, so I place it back down.

“Let's eat, shall we?” asks Effie as soon as Portia sits down. I pick up the fork and knife and begin digging in. For a couple of District 12 tributes, I'm quite surprised that both Katniss and I didn't gorge on the food like a couple of savages. Effie will have a fit if she does see us eat that way. Haymitch seems to be heeding to his manners, and that brings some sort of satisfaction to Effie's heart. Hopefully.

I walk back into my room, glancing outside to the well lit atmosphere. I can still hear the shrieks of the outside, as if the window isn't soundproof enough to block their excitement, or maybe its default, where they want us to hear their chants. Like they're reminding us non-stop of what our purpose here is. I cannot help but rub my forearm mindlessly when I think of that. Sickening.

The door opens, with Haymitch entering the room, and preambling around the interior, with his head nodding in approval of the room. “Not bad, looks way better than the house I'm living in,” he says.

I stay silent at his declaration of approval.

“Anyways, enough commenting about the Capitol decor, let's talk about how you will survive the games,” he says, seriousness being the main tone. I sit on the bed a bit hesitantly, not really prepared of what he's going to inform me.

“Tomorrow will be your first day training, where you will train for two weeks for the games,” he begins explaining, his blue eyes fixed at the outdoor. He picks up the remote and changes the background, turning the bustling city to a desert, “Too hot for you?” he asks me, with his eyes trained on me. I shake my head like a pushover before he changes it once more, this time to a lake. He stares at the image silently, like something is haunting the soul of his. It takes him nearly 20 seconds before he changes it again, this time to mountain setting, “Ahh, there we go,” he happily says, before setting the device on the table.

“As I was saying,” he resumes, “The good thing about this training is that we get to choose what is our department when we face the games. Knives, swords, even just knowing berries and herbs can change the tides of the games. Now I know what you're thinking, why not bring Katniss here? Well, she's more adapted to this setting, so what I'm telling you is probably something she heard from her countless ludic journey to the forest,” I didn't feel offended at the statement. The pity isn't something I needed to focus on when my life is at stake here, “The training won't let you hurt the other tributes, so let's call this a temporary immunity. You can do anything there, and by the end of the day, you will probably find something that will help you,” he purses his lips, his eyes raking my body, almost suggestively. I tense at the stare, before shifting by an inch.

“Judging from your body, I'd say you're well suited for something strong, but that's not what you're really good at, are you?” he asks honestly.

“I-I don't really know what I can do. I mean, I can paint, but I don't see how that will help,” I reply helplessly. His eyebrows cock, and snaps his fingers at the response.

“That can prove your biggest asset,” he says finally, bringing only kerfuffle to my mind.

I sleep on the bed, with my body tucking a little too much underneath the blanket. Haymitch has long left the room, with his idea all poured into me. I don't see how long I can survive with the technique he has just told me.

Camouflage.

He tells me that past winners from District 6 use it as a way of avoiding their enemies, with their ability above the par, that not even their enemies realize that they're next to them the entire time. He finds it a shame that the sawdust filled brain brutes of 1 and 2 cannot seem to use more than their brawn to search for a skinny man all covered in nature, until mutts or starvation kicks in. How they survive with almost little to no food is beyond me, but he deduces that the sponsors had something to do with their victory.

Can't hurt to try, but it all comes down to the background of the arena. I don't see how I can camouflage myself with snow that its temperature alone can kill me and desert with sands and heat that barely rivals the sun practically being the primary factor of my suffocation and dehydration. My mind is farsighted enough to know that there is no loophole around drastic temperatures. I sleep with my eyes shut and dream for something pleasant. The sounds of the Capitol have long gone low, a feeling I cannot help but feel grateful for. Their lifestyle isn't something people from District 12 would want to live in.

I want to go home, that's all I'm asking for. Is that so much to ask for? I just want to be home, be innocent from the senseless maiming and I close my eyes tight – almost too tight – to hope that I'm actually in my bed at home above the bakery with someone holding me tightly.

Someone like Gale.

I wake up, and my eyes blinking at the metal ceiling, eventually heaving in disappointment when I see that my hopes of being home ends up being inevitable. I sit up, rubbing my eyes, slow and numb at the darn luck I had not specially receive. I remove the blanket away from my legs, and let my feet touch the subzero like floor. My feet reflexively shivered and pulled back when it makes contact with the floor, before settling back down on the floor with confidence and adaptation. I am wearing nothing but soft cotton green shirt with brown pants that made my sleeping all the more comfortable, like the comfort is basically an illusion to the real problem.

Like telling a young kid of a war plane passing by and implanting the excitement of it, letting the young kid blissfully ignore the other side of the whole story.

I stand up, and enter the bathroom, my eyes squinting at wonder of why Effie nor Portia has woken me up. Did I wake too early? The background Haymitch turned on last night is still on the window, blocking the picture at the other side. I walk to the door and am met with something electric blue that shrieked.

“Peeta,” says Effie before dusting off her blouse of unknown dusts, “Oh good, you're up early. Wonderful,”

“Morning,” I say politely, my question clarified that it is morning. And I can feel the mental slap of what it all means.

Today is training day.

 _Wonderful,_ I mentally say in Effie's voice.

“Why don't you go ahead and shower, Peeta while I wake Katniss up? Once you're all freshen up, we'll have breakfast together, alright?” she asks with hope in her eyes.

“Sure, Effie,” I reply back. I really should start being as mean as Katniss. So far, she has been showing distaste for the games, disgusted with the fact that someone as ditzy as Effie has been hired to represent us, but my moral codes have never crossed past being judgmental. I close the door back, the last image of the outside being Effie walking down the steps with cautiousness because of her high stilettos. The door clicks shut gently and I walk to the bathroom, with my mind fully prepared to tackle the bathroom. I now know the buttons, thanks to my rash fingers touching whatever that may work. I wonder if Haymitch lives with this in the Victor's Village. Probably not, and it's a far better luxury to be in that here right now. I don't mind living in the fast lane, but this is way too fast for me.

I sit down on the chair, letting myself get comfortable, before digging in the meal that is prepared for me. I take the first few bites of my meal, silently enjoying the perfect seasoning of the food. Haymitch doesn't say anything. Not that I expect him to anyway, since I trust that his advices will only come when necessary. Though it is never said to be wrong to ask, so far, his timely moments of giving advices seems to be working for both the thinking and motivation.

I don't necessarily trust him as a whole, but I trust his instincts. He takes a sip of his drink, and take his time to find the right words to with his mouth pursing left and right, his tongue cleaning the yellow teeth inside his mouth.

"Now, the first thing I need to tell you, is that training begins today. Now, the Avoxes have already left some clothes for you, so you need to change after you finished your food," he clasps his hands, his thoughts orchestrating almost meticulously, "During training, I want you to do some reconnaissance. The training center holds almost every weapon and apothecary sans machinery, and you will have almost a week to observe and share, if you want, with the information that you just procured. Don't be fooled. Some may look weak, but the metaphor looks can be deceiving,"

"I take it this has happened before," I say.

"Good thing you choose to be out of the loop in watching the past Games," he says, almost chuckling at the idea of a tribute not really into watching the graphic live images, "Yes, this has happened before. Remember when I said that The Careers aren't the smartest of the bunch sometimes?" I nod, the conversation still vivid, "Few years ago, a tribute, I think her age was 15, give or take? Doesn't matter, she was a real sly queen. Cried and flinched for days over the smallest thing. So paranoid that The Careers took pity on her," he shakes his head disappointingly, "I still stand by my statement when I say that they're not the brightest. During the game, they recruited her, letting her be the last to have her life taken. Biggest mistake to them. When the tributes started to dwindle over time, leaving barely 5 people, came out this deranged psychopath. She took out every last remaining tributes slowly, and gosh, was that a sleeper to the public. No one expected her to survive that long. Johanna Mason. Probably her best and last time for her and _anyone_ ," he emphasizes, "to be that gripping of an actor,"

"Because The Careers realize how emotions can be a deadly weapon?" I blurt out asking, not really wondering whether my answer is on point.

He nods, "Emotions are meant to convince you, so The Careers these days are only raised with altered and almost basic responses to their liking, like pride, arrogance, ego. No love, compassion or sugary sweet," he flutters his finger in the air dramatically, "You can't bargain with emotions in the games. They only want the glory and their adversaries eliminated. Nothing else,"

I look down at my food, suddenly feeling the appetite fading away. The breakfast was alright, but not so much to the point I want to feel sated any longer. I place the cutlery on the plate, before pushing the plate gently to the front by a few centimeters. Haymitch doesn't seem fazed by my inability to finish my food, and looks at me with quirked eyebrows, as if he is trying to tell me, "Don't say I didn't warn you,"

I stand up, walking away from the table and then heading to my room with silence hanging on my shoulders. I walk the stairs back up again, and enter my room, only to see the bed neatly folded and an attire placed. I take the black fabric into my hand and run my fingers through the almost synthetic material. Its stretchable and that's worrying for my almost stocky and fit build can bring myself to be a target to the other tributes with just the tightness and inclination to stick to the skin. I undress with a groan and wear the prepared clothing, feeling the soft but weirdly the synthetic quality of the fabric. Its almost too real to be fake. There is also a number 12 written both on the sleeves and at the back collar of the shirt.

I walk out of the room, and I can see Katniss at the table. She doesn't seem to be eating, meaning that she could have finished her already. I'm no idiot because I know Katniss needs food as much as the circumstances today seem rather inauspicious. I can see Haymitch talking to her and Effie looking and admiring at her reflection in the small compact mirror she has her hand holding on to.

I walk down and Effie perks up when she sees me, and I can hear her voice telling Katniss to get ready. Haymitch doesn't move from his position, as he continues to eat slowly while watching the two of us walking to the elevator. The elevator descends responsively when Effie presses the button with an inscribed 'T' on it. I can feel the elevator descending beneath my feet and hear the humming tune from Effie whose lips were drawn shut but her expression insouciant.

We finally reach the floor, and the door opens in front of us. I look at the interior, with nothing but tributes and platforms laid out in the open space of the room. I walk in the room, with my footsteps precarious and watch as the other tributes were walking around the area; some in groups and some off alone. I barely notice Katniss walking past me and I watch her viewing the place too with careful eyes. I see some men dressed in black and I figure that they must be the trainers, to prepare for us.

"Everyone group around here," shouts a lady dressed in black and red. She has her hair pinned into buns, and she has the biggest eyes that I have ever seen. Her eyes make it the most striking feature beside her dark skin. She's dressed similarly like us but the only difference is her top, which is a jacket and a gold Capitol symbol. She stands on a short pedestal with her hands clasped between each other. She looks serious and her face is devoid of makeup; a nice change from the vibrancy of the Capitol.

She introduces herself as Atala, and she goes through the basics of the game, with her explanation almost verbatim as Haymitch's. I listen, even though the act itself is not necessary. I look at the other tributes during the explanation, with some looking smug; some attentive and others just busy looking at one another with a hidden murderous intent. I shiver at the idea of being looked at, and stupidly try to make myself indistinguishable from the crowd.

It's easy for them. The trainers. I bet they don't even understand what it's like to be living under the slogan, "May the odds be ever in your favor,". They don't even have the odds that we have. The ones that they have are considered to be the greatest and we get the worst; with their freakish tendencies of trying at 'odds' used on the weaker ones. As if we're guinea pigs to these people. I can't help but feel nauseous at the thought of how these people have the audacity to pull some unfounded hope on us.

We split up once the introduction has been given; warmups being the main priority of the day. The trainers supervise us, with their instructions laconic and easy. Some of the warmups were easy but some who have little adaptation towards exercising easily tumble through the exercises, with their bodies injured and others - myself, included - standing there doing nothing. Shameful.

The warmups ended with the tributes splitting up. The Careers opt to use the melee weapons. The weapon racks are array, with almost every kind readied, except machineries. _Of course they wouldn't make this easy._ I see the blond hair man holding the sword, his eyes almost glinting at the magnificence of its construction. I can tell that he favors the weapon more than anything and the moment his grip tightens at the weapon gives validation at how much murderous can he become with it. I look away before he even sees me, trying not to create a sign that speaks 'FIRST KILL'.

With my attention completely peered away from the others, I stare at a station, with trees as a backdrop. I narrow my eyes at the station, thinking why would the terrain laid out there be _that_ specific. I look around, with my attention fully encapsulated at the fact that there aren't any other terrains but forests. I shake my head at the thought and make my assumption silent in my mind, with hopes that Haymitch may have some clues on the idea. I walk towards the small station. The station has a table, with bowls filled with liquids of different colors and shades. Brushes were laid out neatly and systematically, with the thickness of the brushes aligned ascendingly in diameter. I walk towards it, letting my fingertips hover over the brushes, trying to grab a feeling from them.

I pick one up, rolling the brush between my fingers. I glance at the bowls, and slowly dip the brush slowly into the bowl. The brush changes color, with the color infusing slowly to the fine hairs of the brush. I lift the brush up, and frown at the color. There's no way in hell would a forest contain red in their palette, unless the season is in autumn, I will forgive them.

I take another brush and dip into another bowl. The colors that I know will be suitable to the cool atmosphere of the forest. I separate the ones that have no connection to it, and make sure that every apparatus suits to my needs. Once done, I take a deep breath, and glance at the other tributes, whose attention have not swayed since my last observation. I take a new brush and dip into the bowl. Here goes nothing.

I stare at the tree bark, trying to remember its features and color and take the paint and start painting my forearm. The paint feels cool and I let the brush take control of me, just like how bakery does to me. I won't lie when I say that Haymitch has a point of using my skills in the bakery to good use, and as I keep going, I can see more of wood barks, and less of a hand. Not many brushes are used, and I smile at the lack of using too much to get away with something. Being thrifty does have its advantages. I finish painting my hand and move towards the tree bark, and smile impressively at how my hand has lost itself towards the background I so plagiarized.

"Well, well. Boy from 12 can paint," I look up and my eyes widen at the sight of the blond man standing with his body sweating right in front of me. His blue eyes were hard and cold, and I cannot tell whether that it's just an act or some display of how menacing he can be, or its just his usual demeanor. His clothes don't seem soaked with sweat but the forehead that is beading with sweat shows me the amount of endurance this man has. His muscles really fit his shirt really well, and makes me wonder how often does this guy train. He has this smirk; again with me wondering whether that’s his usual appearance. Cocky.

 _Arrogance can be deadly,_ I remember.

"Not bad," he says, with his eyes pointing at my hand. I didn't nod, nor did I say anything to the blond man. Atala says that no fighting is allowed in the training center, something Haymitch manages to omit probably because there's no necessity to it as they would make it a point to reminding us of the said prohibition. He closes in on me, his eyes never leaving me at all. I struggle to breath mostly because I know his strength and physique is enough to tell you that they are able to decimate or snap you neck without blinking his eyes shut.

He inches away from me, and somehow I can feel this small ventilation of air coming out of my nostrils. I can feel the tension leaving my body, and as he walks out the station, he looks at me with an amused smirk; as if the scent of my fear feels invigorating to his senses. He leaves, and I let out a deep exhale that I can almost feel death suffocating me.

Day one of training is exhausting, especially with the fact that there's this unwritten pressure to be as good as the next tribute. Katniss seems to be faring well, and I will call it bullshit if she doesn't admit that she's as at least tired as I am. The elevator is empty and walking and I really am in desperate need of a shower at the moment.

The door opens and I walk to see no one in the living room, or anywhere. Good; I really am not in the moment of hearing Effie's exuberance blasting my ears off. I walk back to my room hurriedly lest I want my words to be spoken too soon. I arrive in my room, and head into the bathroom, ready to relieve my body off the pain. I disrobe my clothes and fill the bathtub, not really caring if I'm only half an hour late for dinner.

I step into the bathtub, and suspire relaxingly when my feet meet the lukewarm water. I let my whole body sans the head be dipped in the lukewarm water, and I can feel the sore and worn muscles fading. I close my eyes for a few seconds, as if my mind's some control to let more of the pain to be disappearing now that I have the water to aid in my pursuit of relief.

I wipe off the excess water off my body and wear some casual clothes. I leave the training clothes on the rack, for the Avoxes' ease. I head out of my room, and I see the said domestic workers doing their work, with them delicately placing the food on top of the glass table. I see Effie, with her hands carefully holding each side of the magazine. She has long nails, and I would imagine how would she react to have at least one of them broken.

I walk down and I see Katniss walking down too. Her eyes don't meet mine, and I shrug it off, knowing that hunger is really our main enemy to tackle for the moment. I sit down once I reach the table and Katniss sits to my left. Haymitch comes in, and he sits down next to Effie. We all begin eating, and the growling that was bothering our system has now subsided calmly.

"So," says Haymitch, "How was training?"

No one speaks after the question, and I decide to take the floor to answer. "It's alright. Everyone seems to be attached to a different station,"

"That means killing will be a bit difficult seeing that everyone is sporadic with their respective talents," he says, "Now, to the main part. What have you guys seen that may be of use to you?"

No one speaks once more and I swallow my food before answering, "I think the arena will be of a forest theme,"

Katniss turns her head to me, as if my words have caught her attention. Haymitch looks at me with a smirk, either amused or just readying his words to mock my assumptions. "The stations. Most of them are of forest background. The camouflage, the survival skill; all the stations have something in common," I continue. Katniss blinks at me and returns to eating her food.

"Good," says Haymitch, "I'm impressed. Most would miss that mark, I tell you that. They will either put the arena in that setting or one that will involve forests. Either way, you will know that the survival skills taught there will be of use there. Were there any sands?" I shake my head. "Then, it's most likely that it will be a forest theme,"

"What about the tributes?" he asks.

"One's good in identifying herbs and technology," I say.

"Then that tribute will be of disadvantage," Haymitch confidently says, "The only time technology has any use in the forest is when there're sponsors, and we mentor have limitations. Unless she has talent in weaponry at least, maybe herbs will be at her side,"

I nod my head, digesting the cons of being a mentor. We continue eating, with Katniss now pitching some of her observations; one of which being a girl from 10 being a skilled climber. Haymitch assures her that her ability will be of her greatest asset, knowing that little would go so far as to look up at the trees to find one girl or risk themselves so vulnerably to have their attention focused somewhere else while their killers are on the loose.

"I heard you can shoot," he says while taking a bite of his peas.

Katniss stays silent for a moment before replying, "I'm alright,"

Bull. "She's more than alright," Katniss' head turns to me, and I keep my eyes locked at Haymitch's, "My father buys her squirrels. Says that she hits straight in the eye, all the time,"

No one speaks for a moment and Katniss looks away from me to Haymitch, "Peeta's strong,"

I furrow my eyebrows in confusion, "What?"

"He can carry a hundred-pound sack of flour, I've seen it," she says quickly.

"Well, I don't know how am I going to kill someone with a hundred-pound sack of flour,"

"Well, you could if you have a chance of winn-"

"I have no chance of winning!" I snap, "None," Katniss looks down to her food, and my boiling point blinds my empathy, "It's true," I continue, "Everyone knows it," A pause, "You know what my mom said? She said that District 12 will finally have a winner, and she wasn't referring to me, not with the lines of having 'one less mouth to feed after all of this is over',"

I blink and before I let the guilt sink into me, I leave the table, plopping the napkin harshly on the table. I shouldn't feel guilty. I shouldn't. Knowing that there's no point of feeling so when I had given them the reality check. No Gamemaker would be of right mind of putting a sack of flour as a weapon. Even I am not _that_ stupid.

Day 3 comes in and I continue my training, with some of the tributes already leaving for their lunch. The blond tribute stays behind, and I cannot help but feel like an idiot of being next to someone who injects fear so heavily into someone's psyche. Katniss is still here, and I don't know whether to feel comforted or feel more fearful of her non-existent attitude. The tributes from 1 are still here along with the blond tribute's partner. She's really skilled with the knives, and I wouldn't dare to cross her if she and I were in an alliance together (which will probably never happen).

I no longer have any grudge on what Katniss had said at the dinner, because I know that I am right about what I said. 'May the odds be ever in your favor', they say.

I climb through the ropes, with my fingers almost feeling like jelly the higher I go. My legs aren't faring as well as my hands, with my exhausting waning and impeding my advances the more I go. The ropes act like they have a mind of their own, with me swaying left and right every time I try to go higher.

"Oomph," I fall down with an audible thud. I grimace at the shock that's coursing through my back. Falling down wasn't the biggest surprise I was expecting throughout my climb, nor was the chuckles elicited from the tributes from 1 and 2 (including the blond one). What was surprising being the presence that squatted to my right.

Katniss.

"Throw that metal thing over there," she says, with her gaze locked onto a room filled with respected people, including the Gamemaker, Seneca Crane. He sits on the chair, with his expression relaxed, as if he was gauging our progress throughout the training. I sit up, with my face wincing as I can feel the ignored pain that's shocking my nerve like a small Taser that's shocking my back. I look at the aforementioned metal thing - which is a metal ball - sitting on the ground, with its handle just waiting to be gripped and thrown across the room.

I did the math between the two. Hell no.

"No, we can't," I say, "Haymitch tells us not to cross the Gamemakers,"

"I don't care about what Haymitch says," she retorts pointedly, "Those guys are looking at you like meat. Throw it," She leaves, and I was left dumbstruck at her words. I look at them, their faces still fresh with smug. I really do not want to create any unnecessary actions that will give them some sort of compulsion to have me as their primary target, but with Katniss' words still hanging on to me, I stand up, with my body gimping due to the fall. I approach the ball with cautious steps and pick it up as soon as I let my hand make contact with the ball. It isn't _that_ heavy, but enough to wear me down in this state or if I were to throw this repeatedly. I carry it, with my back hunching to the pedestal. I can see their smirks growing when they see me holding the metal ball in an awkward state. I grip the ball tighter, and my lips thin as I toss the ball not to the Gamemakers, but towards the rack of weapons (a far better attempt than someone's life). It hits the weapon; some weapons fall down to the floor with clangs and thuds audible to the public.

I stare at the Careers' faces and the look slightly shocked, before comporting their expressions to passive ones; feigning a profound bravado. They look at each other casually, before leaving the area. I look at the blond tribute from 2 and he gives me a smirk once more. I stand there; wondering what motives does this guy have in store for me.

I sigh in relief when I felt my training today to be of something. Katniss left the training room ahead of me, and I walk towards the elevator; leaving the bare training room with quiet steps. I don't see anybody in the room anymore, and I take it as a sign of fortune, since I really don't want to put false hopes with someone who wishes to be out of this game through the idea of an alliance nor do I want to be tackled on the first day of training over an imposition that they come to deludingly believe I am placing on them. I press the button and the elevator door opens. I walk inside and lean on the wall, allowing myself to see the door close with hooded eyes. My idle moment is cut short however, when I see a hand emerging between the closing doors and it opens once more, to reveal a 6' figure with blond hair and an almost brutal meaning in his cold blue eyes. _Great. I spoke way too soon._

He comes in, and I can see the post-sweat laid on his shirt. We're wearing black but the sweat stains are evident on both our shirts, the elevator would stink of our sweats if it had not been for the air freshener set up in the elevator. He walks in with an almost discernable hubris, and he smirks when his eyes find mine.

He presses the button to his floor, and I internally wince knowing that we will have to go down first before anything, and stands next to me and folds his arms confidently, like he's actually enjoying inhaling my fear. The elevator goes down, and in my mind, the only thing I can think of is hoping that the dreaded conversation will not even happen. Call it cliché, but if he's going to speak at the last minute; where the door opens at his floor, then I'm going to close the door before he finishes his sentence.

We finally reach his floor, and before he can even take his first step outside the elevator, he pulls me out of the elevator; grips me by the forearms with his muscle-condensed hands. I would scream but what good would that do knowing that this is the floor that belongs to Careers; where your fears become a beacon of entertainment to them, I can only stay in silent fear. Before I know it; he whispers something I never thought a Career would even display after long years of training.

"You are mine," and kisses me full on the lips.


	9. Chapter 9

0.8

I can feel his amazingly soft lips on mine, and the way he wasn't too forceful with it only surprises and coaxes me more. To say I am beyond afraid would be another understatement. I can feel my inhibition seeping, like a cracked bottle draining its content little by little. My eyes flutter shut and my body relaxing despite my resistance, and the hubris of his grows more apparent when he senses my compliance to the kiss. He moves his lips against mine, persuading to move along with it, and out of my will; my lips responded eagerly at the contact. Our breathing also relaxes and I cannot help move my hands to torso.

The arousal is just the beginning.

His grip on my forearms move to my neck and the back of my head; with one tugging my locks and the other holding my head in place as the kiss gets more stimulating. I cannot help the fear that is no longer there and now becoming this shelter; where there isn't fear left or maybe it's just the illusion that this kiss is giving. He senses my ability to respond to a kiss, and so he takes another step by snatching my lips with a flick of his tongue, and my lips part in reply. He slowly pushes his tongue with opportunity in his back pocket, like all fish in the net. I can feel the warmth of his mouth going into mine, and it feels so good, yet at the same time wrong.

Then again, the wrongdoings are always the source of guilty pleasure.

Our sweaty bodies are pressed together and only barred by our almost sticky clothing, and the kiss only makes my mind hallucinate when I can feel my body becoming sweaty again, and the idea of it becoming a reality, only makes things more hard to have a grip of my sanity. My hands subconsciously move down to his hips and I can hear the purr he elicits when I'm closing in to his nether regions. He grips my hair tighter, and the reaction given out from that makes me moan shamefully. Our tongues were doing the talking and the brushes of our noses and skins make me snap altogether.

Screw this.

I push him back; our collision of tongues becoming more desperate. He seems to like the response as he parts and takes my wrist and we both walk to his room. The stairs that we climb on only aggravates our desire. We ultimately reach his room and we couldn't care less when the moment the door shuts, he starts removing my shirt, and the growl that comes out of his breathing makes me want to be out of the shirt quicker than before. I latch his lips with mine fervently, and the moans that I hear from him only incites this side of me I have never known to come by.

His hands go down to my ass, and the grip he places on it makes me moan shamelessly this time. I move my hands to his pants and I looses the strings of his pants and he seems all okay with it. I put my hands in his pants and feel the boxers that only cover barely half his thighs sensually, and gosh, the firmness is all too good be true. I can feel the faint sweat that covers the private part like a small sauna, and I moan in appreciation when I can feel the wetness of his boxers.

I can feel my heart beating harder as our exploration gets more progressive. He loosens my pants and immediately, I took my shoes off, wanting him to feel his hands on my bare skin and in view of the fact that our bodies are sweaty makes it all the hotter. My pants drop to the floor with some effort and the boxers I don feel too tight and I move my hands to the hem of his shirt, wanting the tightness of my boxers to turn up by a small notch.

He removes his shirt, and I can see stare at his abs in glorification. Its defined, insofar as you can see the solar plexus of his. I take little time to ogle at it, as I attach my lips with nipple, my body taking action before my mind is able to process anything.

"I knew you were a little slut," he says with difficult breathing. The term only makes me lick it harder, and the grateful moans he voices out brings his hand to my hair once again. With my strong desire to see his naked glory, I move my hands down to his pants and lower the sweaty fabric, leaving him only in his boxers. I can feel his long arms progressing to the nape of my back, where he slips his finger between my skin and the cotton fabric. I move my hands to his other nipple, begging for attention. "My slut, you hear me?" he breathes.

I moan at the pronoun 'my' and even louder do I moan in agreement when his hand reaches the crack of my butt. He folds the back of my boxers, revealing my ass to him, where I can sense him drooling at it from his vantage point. He moves his hand to the point I don't feel it anymore, and I grow self conscious of the lack of his hand. However, that thought is cut short when I moan like lewdly at the cold contact that reaches once more to my butt crack.

He had licked his two fingers.

Fuck.

He pulls me to the bed, and he moves behind me, propping my body to a bending position. I can hear him dropping his shoes haphazardly and fingers the hem of my boxers. He pulls the boxers down to my legs and then off my feet, where my ass sticks to the air. What happens next only makes my eyes widen as I can feel his tongue prodding between my ass. I give a scream of easy virtue as he gets braver with his attempts, and my hands grip the sheets tighter.

He slithers his head next to mine, and I can feel his slick length sliding against my hole. He nibbles on my earlobe and the hot breath that brushes so apparent against my cheek only makes my head turn to kiss his lips. He moans at our sloppy-angled kiss and the rubbing of his length only makes it harder to have self control. I can feel his hand softly moving along my pelvis as he slowly grips my length and starts stroking it. I give a wanton moan at the contact and I cannot help but move pelvis to get the best friction. It's an effective strike though as not only does my action give heat to my length but also more movement with his length against my ass.

He kisses the nape of my neck and slowly moves down. His kisses don't stop and so does the stroking. As his tongue returns to my hole, he moves his free fingers to my mouth and the idea of me wanting more lets me take his fingers and sucking them tentatively. His lickings get more fervent and I cannot help but want to voice out my needs for this man, who seems like a brutal killer but the touches he gives me only speaks differently.

He removes the fingers from my mouth after minutes of sucking and climbs back up. He licks my ear more and moves the cold fingers to my hole, and I give a hiss of pain when it enters inside it.

"Relax," he says as he uses his free hand to swipe my blond fringe away from my eyes. I can slowly feel myself adjusting to the pain and pleasure and he adds another finger. I moan lecherously and he kisses my lips. He growls and I can sense time is playing with his patience. He removes his finger and slowly slides in his length. I hiss once more but the cooing words he whispers relaxes me. I can hear his breathing stutter and he doesn't move for a moment. He collects himself before he moves out of my hole slowly then sliding back in. This goes on for a few times until the pain I feel becomes of a pleasuring one.

He ups the speed of his, and I voice out erotic moans when he hits the sweet spot. He moves his free hand to my torso, holding me in place. Our moans fill the silence, and thank goodness for that because it's a great distraction from the dissonance outside. I can feel myself unable to contain myself and I involuntarily clench my stomach. His thrusts become harder and the sounds that come out of our throats become rhythmic.

The first feeling I can discern is the undeniable pleasure that radiates out of the pain; like the pain has something worth feeling for. My eyes roll to the back as he keeps going, like I'm going to go insane if he keeps up with this. The pain, touch and aggression of his touches when he thrusts into me coalesce into this high that I'm feeling.

The hedonism just feels so good, and the thought of it makes me feel like I'm going to burst. Literally.

I clench and came with a cry when he gives one more thrust and he slides his length out before he too comes only a few seconds later. I lay on the bed on my stomach and pant exhaustingly when he moves next to me, kissing my lips slowly and possessively. I sigh at the exchange of affection and I move my hands to his hips. I can feel my lower back sore and I wince when he touches the nape of my back.

I pull back and place my head by his collarbone, my tension relaxing. He runs his hand through my hair and I can feel my eyes lulling to blackness.

I open my eyes, in a room that's similar to mine. The outside is still dark, indicating that morning has not arrived yet. I sit up and wince at the painful contact that stretches from my lower back. I look down and see my lower half being covered by a thin fabric. The events come into my head like a flash, and I look to my left to see the blond tribute sleeping. He looks peaceful and wonder if that's the illusion of sleeping these days. Whether their bodies are just vessels and only show its dormant state when its not in use.

Or whether that's just a prediction to their deaths.

One thing I can say from the sex - my first one - it was great, otherwise the moans will be of just exaggeration. I rub my face with my hand and can still feel the lethargy running through my head. I really need to return to my room, before the Effie loses her head. I move to the blond tribute and hesitantly touch his face. I can feel the fine - almost micro - hair that covers his face. Even he doesn't want to be here, by his own accord. Nobody does. For all I know; he is probably here under pressure. To bring name to his district and nothing else.

He flutters his eyes open and I stop caressing his face and contemplate on whether or not should I really leave. I really should; knowing that Effie will lose her head if she finds out I have not been returning to my room as prompted.

"What time is it?" he asks. I move my hand away from his face and turn to see the clock. I reply; informing that it's 15 minutes past 2. He groans and looks at the ceiling. I sit by the side of the bed, wondering if this is the time to leave. "Stay," he says.

"I need to go. Effie will give me a lecture," I reply.

"Ah, so she's that type," he says. I can hear the dejection in his tone and I cannot help but feel the same. I never see the brutes as totally heartless. Just emotionally handicapped. Just as Haymitch says, they are built to and with what they believe are basic responses, but from him, I can see a different story. He’s not like the others, but that doesn’t mean his self-upbringing buys him my trust _that_ easily.

“Isn’t yours like that?” I ask.

“She’s. . . let’s say, she’s probably lost hope for people like us,” he explains with some thought in to it. He’s articulate with his words, I give you that, “District 2 rarely has room for manners, if you know what I mean,” I nod empathetically. District 12 is no stranger having little to no manners when it comes to food. For us, we appreciate it, but for his district? Maybe their covetousness for fame is attributed to the side of the story.

We stare at the window, clearly out of topics to discuss. I didn’t feel the pressure to come up with some insipid topic and he didn’t either. Silence seems like a common ground for the two of us. That’s nice, and I don’t mean it in a sardonic way. So far, no questions my silence, but I can feel their irascibility to the idea, like the Capitols, all gossips can’t and probably won’t leave their ears, eyes and mind quiet.

However, I won’t lie when I have this lingering feeling to stay here for a few more hours. Maybe days even. Sex isn’t the only thing I desire out of the games, specially with the written part where 23 of us will not leave the Capitol alive. I mean, who would deny that? I’ve been here for three days and the least I can leave with this life is the life everyone wants to leave with.

"I don't want to go, though," I say. "I like things to be under different circumstances," He looks at me with hopeful eyes, and I give a sigh of frustration. This isn't supposed to be our lives. Our lives are entitled to killing, yet they give it to us. I can picture them - the Capitol - giving us knives on a silver platter; where they shove the options right in front of our faces. "We have 11 days left here,"

"I know," he says. He looks away at the window, where the city lights burn bright.

"I suppose one night won't hurt. But I'll leave at 5," I say, now laying down and kissing him. He didn't argue with my words, and I feel the warmth matching his joy when I decide to stay with him for the night. I weave my legs with his and the hairs of his legs rubbing against mine. It feels uncomfortable, but not to the point of hurting me.

"I never got your name," he states. I never got his either.

"Peeta," I reply, "I never got yours either,"

"Cato," he says and I lean to close the chasm between our lips and resume the kiss. The name suits him, I thought. Someone who has so much to show for but little to rebel against it. Who would have thought I'd be so eager to get controlled by somebody?


	10. 2nd Quarter Quell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the really late update, folks. I have been crammed in assignments and thankfully it's all over. I will resume writing as normal
> 
> Lesson of the year, university assignments really leaves you soulless; period. Full of shit too those assignments.

I have been keeping a real low profile ever since that night, just hoping that Effie, Haymitch and god forbid, Katniss, won’t rat me out at all. I haven’t exactly gone to sneak out to see Cato, and even if I wanted to, the idea of me doing so will consist me of sneaking out really stealthily. Training has resumed as normal, and every day, whenever I don’t have a hard on seeing Cato just lashing out and concentrating his energy and brute force on a blade to a mannequin or dummy, I look at him, and sometimes, if I’m not being to obvious, catch him staring at me too, but with his placid and aloof look on his face as always. He’s always by the sword fighting station or anything that just screams the use of physical. He neglects - not entirely - the survival stations, and here I am just assuming that he’s only doing so because he wants fear permeated in the room. Like he’s telling everyone indirectly that he’s every tribute’s literal version of a death reaper.

I move my hands around the ropes, attempting to get the knots correct as it shows on the screen. It’s not hard to catch up, but certainly something I find tedious to do. It may prove useful, but I don’t see how that’s going to work knowing that I will die most likely within the first hour of the game. It’s not hard to think like that, because the truth is just so near, it’s almost touchable. I pull the rope tightly once I got the knot right and unfasten it before retrying, hoping that the method does not leave my mind too quickly.

I make my way to the elevator, my body sore, but not as bad as the first day. Katniss and the other tributes have left for their own breaks and I choose to leave the last. I lost sight of Cato for quite a while, and his face didn’t come into my mind until I reach the inside of the elevator. The memory of him caressing my body just seconds after he left for his floor makes me shiver in both fear and arousal. I can’t help it, he’s strong, and call me superficial, but he’s not the type of person I expected him to be. Out of all the people in District 2, he has so far broken the stereotype that every person envisioned him to be.

The door opens onto my floor and I walk out, only to see Portia, Cinna, Haymitch and Effie at the dinner table, with their chattering filling the silence. They don’t take notice of me, probably because the dining table is perched high up with stairs attached to its floor. The Avox stand there like dogs with their eyes closed and their hands overlapping each other. I guess you can say that it’s the Capitol’s level of labor and community service. Katniss doesn’t seem to be there, and I begin to think and agree with my standpoint that she’s not the type to be talking to all and sundry.

I head for my room, giving them hand signals to the people at the table when I hear Effie and Portia asking me to join them for dinner. I will join them, when my exhaustion doesn’t cripple my hands from touching the cutlery. I enter the room wordlessly, and see the lack of clothes on my bed; much to my relief. I dread the thought of finding clothes laid out for me, preparing me for strenuous activities. The training today is exhausting and enervating enough. I enter the shower, and strip my clothes, preparing my body for a warm shower. My body is begging for relief and I let the warm liquid relieve me and I sigh contently.

I know that Cato has been giving me perfunctory, purposeful glances at me. Trying to contact me and checking me out time to time. I try to act casual, getting the fact that despite our secret gathering occurred a few days ago, it doesn’t escape the fact that Cato has an image to fill. He needs to be the badass that he is. The one that everyone fears in the game, like he has not an ounce of insecurity or fear in his mind. Only I know the truth, and that brings a small smile to my face. I bet that he expects me to meet up with him for at least a night, and I too won’t deny that I want to meet him.

Gale wouldn’t know what’s going on behind closed doors.

I join the others at dinner, without Katniss this time. I seriously cannot fathom how their stomachs can handle the gastronomy laid out on the table. It’s as if the chefs here aren’t exhausted of the countless people they have to serve, and now with 24 tributes into their list of people to cook for, it makes me wonder how much are they rewarded for their hard work. They must have something that gives them room for their consumption.

“So, the interviews are coming up,” says Effie, bringing the topic as an icebreaker. The other give oohs at the topic and Portia starts gloating about how the interviews are always the best part of The Hunger Games. Cinna sits casually, taking small bites from his plate while listening attentively to the conversation. Haymitch doesn’t see to show the same reaction as the other three on the table, and here I am sitting confusedly about the interviews. I know that every year, Ceaser Flickerman will give an interview towards every participating tribute, and in simplest terms, it’s a one-way beacon for them to impress the crowd and get some easy sponsors. Charming is something I can do, but just talking isn’t enough. This is a fight to the death, and having a strategy, be it in the game or pre-game, you need something solid to make sure the public has a concrete reason to back you up.

Everything in the game needs a strategy, and I’m not just talking on behalf of the tributes, but also the Gamemakers along with his staff. Where else would the terrains they put up every year come from? It’s all calculative. Many would think that it’s about underage kids killing each other until the last one stands, but really it’s about the environment doing the talking. We tributes are basically an external factor to our deaths. If we have too much fear, stupidity, irrationality or hubris in our mind, then basically that’s considered as internal factor. To the terrain, we are the internal factor, but on the outside, whatever the Gamemakers do like altering the temperature, or just technologically decide to drown us by creating a flood, you can call that external factors.

Haymitch clears his throat audibly, and Portia and Effie lower their voices. I honestly don’t really look forward for the interview. I have to lie through my teeth just to let people sing their praises at me. “Now,” starts Haymitch, “The interview doesn’t start until the day before you all leave this place, but that doesn’t mean the interview alone will save your skin. If you impress the Gamemakers during the evaluation and impress the crowd with your charm, then maybe you have a chance,”

“How do they rate you during the evaluation?” I ask. There has to be more than just announcing the scores, right?”

“They will score you based on the amount of confidence you have. If you have confidence in your strength and skills, as well have practicality towards what weapon or skill you have when you use it in the games, then you obviously have high marks. I know that the kid in 5 is going to score little. The Gamemakers are not the smartest people of the bunch, and even the President will agree with that. You wanna know why?” he asks pointedly at me, “It’s because the Gamemakers are superficial. All judgmental and not skin deep. So if Katniss were to miss her shot if she uses the bow, then you can kiss your chances of having sponsors goodbye,”

I stare at him, processing all the information in one go. It’s a lot to take, I can tell. “Overall, they will grade you between 1 to 12,” adds in Haymitch, “Higher than 8 may be useful. So far, very few has reached 11 and 12. You need to have sheer audacity to impress the Gamemakers.”

The topic dies out, with Effie, Portia and Cinna continue talking about other trivial matters, sometimes including me in the conversation. Haymitch has long left the table, with his bottle of alcohol in his hand and a small shot glass in the other. I did not miss the disapproving glance Effie gives, as she turns to me and say, “At least he knows better than the other mentors in the games,”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

The trio of adults stare at each other, before looking at me, “You just need to watch the footage, I suppose. We’d tell you, but we might get off topic,” says Effie.

 _“Ladies and gentlemen, the 50 th Annual Hunger Games,” _announces a younger, and flamboyant still Ceaser Flickerman. He sure doesn’t look as tan as he is now, and that trait may be better than what he has now, _“This year is a special year, as it is also the 2 nd Quarter Quell,”_

I sit in my room, hugging my pillow tightly as I watch the footage that Effie has given me for my own research. I know that the Capitol has always been so “generous” with showing the entertainment that has become a tradition to them, but going back 20 years into the Game’s history is a lot to look out for. I played the footage, and damn, does the image quality look stunning even after 24 years. The Capitol never fails to look far better than the other districts, if only they knew that it’s us districts that basically contribute the most to the Capitol. Bloodsucking lechers.

 _“This year, the Capitol has announced that in conjunction with the 2 nd Quarter Quell, 48 tributes will be taken this year. That’s right, 48. That’s twice the amount we usually have in the normal Hunger Games,” _No surprise there. The Quarter Quell is always a special event to the upper echelons of Panem. Quarter Quell is celebrated every 25 years, with the intention of reminding people about the tragic events of The Dark Days. So for every Quarter Quell, a special rule has been incorporated into the mix, elevating the hype and excitement of the Capitol and increasing the amount of money needed to build coffins for us people in the districts.

 _“Now, the tributes here today will be interviewed and I cannot wait to see the fresh faces that will bring the excitement that we have waited 25 or for other 50 years for this event to happen,”_ he says chirpily, _“Who will be the last one standing for this year’s Quarter Quell? I’m just dying to find out myself,”_ Hmm, not an appropriate time to put in some pun, Caeser. The crowd cheers crazily as they welcome the first tribute from District 1. I had to bear through their broad answers and deceitful tactics that they use, although I will admit, they may prove useful in future interviews. To charm it has to come from somewhere. I watch the different faces, some confident and some nervous, like the interview itself is something scarier to bear through than the death that they will have to evade from.

 _“And now please welcome, our first tribute from District 12, Haymitch Abernathy,”_ the crowd swoons and basically screams at the sight of Haymitch. I’m actually surprised myself, not really expecting to see Haymitch, whose hair was much shorter and less unkempt and the face of a person who has never touched or been influenced by the power of alcohol walk in. He looks handsome, and if Katniss were here, she too will admit that.

“Is that. . . Haymitch?” a voice says behind me. I jumped at the voice and see that Katniss is behind me. Her lips almost twitch to a smile when she saw my reaction and I nod at her silently as the tape rolls on. She sits next to me with her attention too encapsulated by the graphics that has been preserved for almost 25 years. “Wow,” she breathes out in disbelief. I myself, am quite surprised of her sudden entrance but I didn’t kick her out. She might as well learn something from this like I am.

_“Now,” begins Caeser casually, “Haymitch. What do you think of this year’s Hunger Games, with tributes doubled?”_

The young Haymitch looks at the crowd observantly, his expression unamused. I’m clearly not surprised that would be his habit. Giving that look only cemented the very nature that he is today. Even though he has changed from such a young man, he’s definitely not let go of his expressions. That look he gives towards the audience is unmistakable.

 _“I think. . .,”_ he begins before pausing, _“That even with the increase of numbers, the Capitol is still as stupid.”_ Needless to say, I’m speechless just hearing the brevity of words leaving Haymitch’s lips. I can hear the audible gasps from the audience, as if they have never in their life expected such bold effrontery from the man himself, let alone a tribute. Surely he isn’t the first tribute to speak his mind freely, right? Judging by the audience, I guess not. Even Katniss’ eyes seem to widen considerably from my peripheral vision. Caeser Flickerman doesn’t seem to perturbed or fazed by the comment, as if his whole personality has been schooled to be immune to insults.

 _“Well, that is a very interesting answer, Haymitch,”_ says Caeser with not an inch of hurt in his voice, _“Well, one’s man opinion right, folks?”_ The charm and exaggerated sweetness that Caesar puts up is unnerving. It makes me wonder how anyone is accustomed to that kind of sugarcoating nature. I can hear the crowd basically murmuring alongside each other. _“Well, Haymitch. It’s a pleasure meeting you, and we wish you luck.”_ I wonder if Haymitch has any idea what kind of position he has put himself in, jeopardizing his own chances on having sponsors. Sure, he may have ended up as the winner of that year, but surely he has some doubts in his ability, right?

I look at Katniss, who gives an unsure look at me. At least someone agrees with me. As standoffish she is, she can’t possibly rely too heavily on herself to survive in the woods. All those time and spoils collected in the forest weren’t all credited by her. She had Gale, and even she had to rely on Gale for some things. Sure, working on a bow may have been part of her interest or some legacy that she had to follow, but her ability to hunt stealthily and cunningly had to be from Gale. I remember seeing Mr. Hawthorne coming in to give the spoils to my dad, and even I know from a young age, Gale was there with him, watching his dad with keen. I was too busy sketching to even notice his presence.

The clip goes on to the Games, with the commentary from Caeser Flickerman and Claudius Templesmith – who still looks as flamboyant and preppy as his colleague – coming in time to time, to give the audience an update on what the situation of the game has grown. The entire game isn’t shown since the two commentators give images of the dead tributes, and telling the audience the tally and leftover number of tributes in the arena. So far, Haymitch has been a surprising contender, from the way Claudius has described. The images then switch back to the arena. I watch as Haymitch walk around own his own, with nothing but a knife and a bag slung over his shoulders. His clothes look dirty but there isn’t an inch of tatter on his clothes. No one seems to be tailing him, so I guess that adds to the safety.

He seems to be walking aimlessly, not really having a purpose as to where he is going. He soon walks to a cliff, with nothing but a dead end for Haymitch. He huffs silently at his predicament and soon kicks a pebble right across the air. My surprise comes next, as well as his, when the kicked pebble soon returns to him. Haymitch looks at the air, then the pebble, gaging his mind on the whole situation. He kicks the pebble again, and a few seconds later comes the said pebble, landing right in front of his shoe. The silent smirk that Haymitch gives off is unmistakable as he continues walking off, away from the newly discovered friend of his.

“Must be a force field,” muses Katniss. I stare at her, a bit confused at her assessment before continuing, “The arena has got to have some limits, so the force field probably marks it.” That’s sensible, knowing that such arena doesn’t exist anywhere in Panem. The entire arena is technologically built, not a trace of nature has got anything to do with it. The only thing that nature has any part of this is the research. Capitol technology has always been of prestige, able to replicate and duplicate any item so long as they have one copy or sample of the said item. And the limit has got to be somewhere, so that’s where the force field marks its course. Huh. The capitol seems to have weakness, who knew?

I continue watching Haymitch as he walks around the arena, only to find himself being attacked viciously by a crazed tribute. There’s nothing sane about this tribute, with his hand swiping and slicing the air as if nature itself has turn its back towards him. Haymitch tries to dodge it, and made good work out of it too, when he manages to disarm him, but his victory is short lived though, when the tribute resorts to lunge at him, taking the wind out of Haymitch’s system. The tribute then grips Haymitch’s vulnerable neck, squeezing it like there’s no tomorrow. Haymitch tries to fend himself off, but his efforts come out as slapping. The rid of oxygen is the solid reason why his actions come off as little effort. I almost believe that Haymitch has lost when the tribute suddenly flinches and then slumps to the ground, removing the suspense entirely. Haymitch chokes on air, and I myself give a sigh of relief, not really aware that I had been tense throughout the small fight.

What catches my attention is the small protruding dart that is on Haymitch’s attacker. A dart; no doubt it’s poisonous, I think. The camera zooms out to a lady, with a crossbow in her hand. She seems familiar, no doubt. District 12 has a natural ability of getting to know every single one of the residents, even if you have met them or not. However, I will admit that, there are some people I have little recognition for, and the woman whom has helped Haymitch is one of them. I watch as the two form a temporary alliance, and they walk around the arena once more, leaving the dead tribute without giving pity towards his fate. Can’t be help, though. I now notice what Atala meant when she’s said that people die in the arena due to natural causes. Huh.

As the clip rolls on, they arena finally leaves with 5 tributes, and the amount of days that have accumulated in the arena has passed the 13th mark. I’m actually impressed of their will to stay alive this long. Most people who have lost their minds or will before the game usually just let death come to them, but there are some out of that said group who chose to do the opposite, and at least stay alive before their fate has been sealed.

Nothing catches my attention more when Haymitch and the lady - whom I now know is Maysilee Donner - having an argument. Long story short, the two are fighting that their alliance should break to minimize casualties, but Haymitch doesn’t see eye to eye to her proposal. I don’t think I would agree with Haymitch but the fact that this is a fight to the death, it doesn’t shock me when Haymitch wants a small semblance of home before he faces his apparent death. They separate, and I cannot shake this hunch that something worse is take place in the next coming minutes. The camera skips to screaming and Haymitch running to find the same lady, Maysilee, being attacked by pink flamingos. I’m at this point quite amazed at how the Capitol has managed to sample such rare species. Flamingoes are almost extinct in Panem and the way they programmed the flamingos to attack makes me wonder what kind of creatures will they sent for us this year. The fear is undeniable thick when I think about it at a deeper level.

And I’m not really into finding out what.

I watch as Maysilee Donner heaves her final breath, due to the creatures impaling her neck like butter, and Haymitch holding her hand and keeping a strong expression. This is probably one of those rare moments I’ve ever seen anybody from the 12 giving a damn for each other. Mostly, when the tributes are returned from the arena dead and lifeless, the only thing we can sum up is that the two tributes never actually met each other. They have little to no relationship until they both are wound up in the arena themselves.

There are only two tributes left, and Katniss has not once left her place in my room. Not that I care, and upon reflection, I kind of enjoy watching it in my room rather than the living room, since Haymitch wouldn’t be impressed by watching his younger self on the television screen. He has seen enough of his nightmare, and I don’t want to be the one to re-instigate it. Even though there are only two tributes left and with the knowledge that Haymitch actually wins this whole game, the adrenaline never ceases to escape us, as we watch culminating fight that I guess everyone from all districts 24 years ago were so eager to see; the ending. The fight was rather intense, with Haymitch and a knife, while a girl - whom I know was from District 1 - is holding an axe. Haymitch runs all the way escaping from her and evading with purpose as if he knows the entire arena like he has read the blueprint or map about it. I see the familiar terrain where the force field is laid, and thankfully, the force field is invisible to the naked eye. The fight gets gruesome as I watch Haymitch digging her eyeball out mercilessly and I can feel my palms clenching into fists. I keep forgetting who the winner is and as the fight draws closer to its end, I watch as Haymitch clutches his cut stomach. Goddamn, that is going to leave a nasty scar. Haymitch is completely disarmed and I dread to find out what happens next, regardless whether I know he’s the winner or not.

The girl throws her axe as a means of a finishing blow, and Haymitch ducks it, and limps to the ground. Nothing happens at all, and for a few seconds I wonder what whether the recording has gone wrong until I see a deflected axe sinking its blade onto the girl’s head. She falls to the ground with a loud thud, and a pause goes. Haymitch was still breathing and I hear Caesar’s voice booms narratively as he declared Haymitch as the winner of the second Quarter Quell. The recording ends with the Capitol symbol, and then goes black.

That’s it? All of what’s left of Haymitch’s year? There has got to be more than that. Why is it that Haymitch looks so miserable after all these 24 years? Shouldn’t there be a happy ending to his story. Come to think of it, why isn’t his family mentioned? Katniss seems to be confused too, but with nothing to go by, she leaves my room without a word and I sit down, waiting for some recording or image to pop up on my screen to answer my questions.


	11. Distraction

Watching Haymitch from my viewpoint somehow unnerves me. It's no wonder he's been so closed off. Effie has just told me that after the 2nd Quarter Quell, he has become a recluse ever since, but reasons even she's not sure of. It comes as no surprise to me that she doesn't have knowledge, though. Capitol people these days are too invested with other superfluous things. I can no longer look at him in pity as I'm pretty sure that the pity will rehash some unwanted memories.

Anyway, training resumes per usual, and there's only a couple days left before the evaluation starts. The evaluation somehow makes me nervous and I have no idea what skills should I utilize for the Gamemakers. Surely, they don't want to see my art skills. I'm fighting to the death not giving them an exhibition of my art skills. I run, my endurance increasing as days' passes. The training, I must admit has increased a lot of things. Returning to the room, I only see my body looking more fit, and my muscles showing and more defined, in spite of the soreness that runs through it. My shirt somehow has become tighter, and the Avoxes seem to note that, as ever since I've seen the salient difference, they have been giving me shirt sizes that are a bit bigger for my comfort. At least there are some people who care about my well-being. Holding weapons have somehow become easier for me, and so far, the only weapon of choice that I've been using is just wrestling. The trainers have definitely taught me some useful techniques that may come in handy should I myself face a situation where only our bodies are our weapons. Techniques like getting out of a chokehold, or pinpointing the crucial nerves that many people leave vulnerable. However, I do fashion the spear for some good measure. I doubt that I'd be carrying the metal ball all around the arena. That thing would be an inconvenience to me.

Cato comes into the camouflage station and then gives me a brief message to meet him in his quarters when training ends. I didn't answer him, but I certainly won't refuse or decline the invitation. I don't know how to tell you, but when you have lost your virginity - pretty recent, might I add - you sort of have this urge to satiate yourself once more. It's like one more sex would abate the urge to unravel. Either that, or it's just my image of making sure that I'm slightly intimidated by him. It's an image that is needed to be maintained. To others, he's considered as their endgame and executioner. I keep thinking about how his hands touch my back and tug at my hair, and how I will moan unashamedly when he does a rough kiss on my lips. I clear my throat to get that sexual thought out of my head, the idea not really necessary.

I continue painting my hands, and then smile proudly at my useful effort to keep myself alive in the Games. I hate feeling a sense of pride in my system, but the only loophole to my feelings is that I at least have something to feel proud about before I die, rather than me saying the Games wouldn't be so bad. I'd be a digging an early grave if I did say that, both out loud or mentally.

•

Training ends with a loud whistle, and Atala gives her final advice and reminder that training will be opened for everyone should anyone needs to do some final technique polish before evaluation starts in the afternoon. She will give a briefing on what to do when evaluation does begin, and then she leaves, leaving the rest of us to do whatever we want. Most of the tributes have left the room, leaving me and Cato the only two people in the training room, coincidentally.

I was too busy with the tie knotting station, with the screen showing the ropes being tied slowly. I mimic the demonstration and my tongue peeks out in concentration. I eventually get it right, and then tapped the screen for the next demonstration, when I feel my waist being wrapped by two sweaty strong arms. I slightly jump at the contact in shock, only to be calmed down by slow peppers of kisses on my neck. I wasn't as sweaty as he is, but I the fact that two people are touching each intimately with sweaty bodies just turns me on somehow. Cato slowly moves his hands up to my chest and I give a soft moan at the contact. My grip on the ropes are failing me, with my hands quivering and shuddering as he continues to nip on the shell of my ear.

"C-Cato, not here," I say intelligently, "What if someone sees us?" He moans in reply, and then latches his lips onto my neck and I pant in pleasure when he mouths his lips on my skin. I'm trying so hard in my power not to lose myself to the touch, but the temptation is just too strong, and if I were any weaker than I am now, I would have just given in to the touches and kisses, letting him take me whole right here in the training room.

Now, wouldn't that be a sight to imagine?

He stops his touches and I give an internal whine at the emptiness. I know that if it were in different circumstances, I wouldn't mind letting him just touch me like there is no tomorrow. Heck, I wouldn't mind him having a possessive streak whenever I'm five feet apart from him, but sacrifices have to be made, much to our chagrin. I drop the ropes onto the table and then face him. He looks at me with his beautiful blue eyes, and I bite my lip at the sight before me. Forehead glistening in sweat, and his lips thin but so luscious to just be pressed on. His jawline is just godlike, and I'm here standing here with my short height just ogling him like some deprived sexual lunatic - which I may as well may be since it has been days since our last meet.

"Come on, let's get out of here," says Cato before taking my hand. I grip his hand as tight as he holds mine, and we soon intertwine them. I smile at the sight of my hands being clasped in his, and I bet Cato does too, judging from the smile he has plastered on his face. We both walk to the elevator and press the floor to his level. The elevator descends and I can feel Cato rubbing small faint circles on the back of my hand, just between my index finger and thumb with his thumb. It feels soothing and I couldn't care less whether Effie or Haymitch are looking for me. I'm sure one night without them wouldn't hurt. I mean, it worked the first time; who's to say the second wouldn't?

We reached his level and with cautiousness being played, Cato checks the outside, making sure that the coast is devoid of any tributes or mentors that might see us together. I understand where this is coming from; the mighty and brutal tribute that is sent to kill all the other 23 tributes in the arena is turning soft for one of the tributes. Who wouldn't want to use emotional or even physical blackmail on him? Most of the Careers are probably plotting their attempts in killing Cato, and the first way to do that is to keep their friends close and their enemies closer. Smart move. Cato's being blacklisted from the very first day training had started as a threat.

We sneak into his room, and the moment I hear the door clasped shut with a turn of a lock, I press myself against him. He grips my waist and our lips lock with symbiosis. I dig my nails into his back and I can feel his hand going down to my pants. He teases me by pulling my shorts before letting it go, giving a soft but tangible snap as it retracts back to my hipline. I moan at the soft flog, and he repeats it once more, with my response being as hungry and libidinous as before. I feel his tongue colliding with mine, and I move my hands underneath his shirt feeling the sweaty back of his that is apparently drying up due to our short abstinence. I move ride his shirt further up and he brings his arm in the air, letting me pull it out before his bare torso makes its appearance. I waste no time removing my shirt and then press myself against him.

Our kisses are getting filthier and for what it seemed like hours do we slowly move to the bed, with me laying on the soft duvet on my back. Forget showering, the pleasure is completely ridding me of my sanity. I can feel his hands trailing to my pants and without teasing any further, he pulls them down, revealing my sport briefs to him. He moans out a "Fuck," before going down to my clad crotch, taking a long, deliberate whiff of it and then mouthing against my clothed length. I moan loudly at the feeling of his tongue lapping on the cotton fabric and I run my hands through his hair, tugging them appreciatively. He kisses my thighs, and then returns to my lips. I move my hands to his pants, folding them and revealing his briefs, and man, do I moan loudly at the sight of his half naked body. The fact that his pants are slowly to his knees just make the entire sex all the more dirty and delicious. He then kicks the pants away, not caring where it has now landed. He grinds his covered length onto mine, and I gasp during our kiss when he does it. He does it again, and I moan helplessly.

I turn the tables as I now straddle him, giving him kisses down from his chest, then his treasure line, and then of course, prod my tongue into his navel, eliciting a moan from my Adonis lover. I then pull down his underwear, and the leaking tip of his length just prompts me to kiss it, and I smile deviously at the sensitive twitch of the organ. The pre-come that is oozing out of the tip just makes me dart my tongue and let the liquid land on the tip of my tongue, my eyes never leaving him. I can hear him going incoherent with words like "Tease," and "Fuck," being taken over by senseless garble. I wrap my mouth tentatively around his tip and then suck on it, making sure that I savor every second and ounce of it like an ice cream on warm, sunny day. He gasps at the wet contact and I can feel the sheets being drawn to him as he grips it like he's on the edge of ecstasy.

I suck and bob my head around his length and then go deep with bravery laced in my actions. I try to get the tip at the back of my tongue and successfully get him crazy as I feel the tip touching my throat. I move my hands to his, interdigitating them lovingly as he moans crazily. I remove my lips off his length and I watch the long string of mixed saliva and pre-come making my mind hazy. I give his balls attention too, satiating him lasciviously. I didn't want him coming yet, so I move back up to his lips, letting his have a taste of the sweat and pre-come that his body has been secreting involuntarily. He moans in the kiss, and I whisper, "Your turn," before seeing the childish lust growing in his eyes. He flips me onto my stomach, and I bury my nose and lips into the pillow. I wait for him to make his move and I am met with his head nestling in the crook of my neck and shoulder. He kisses my cheek and then nibbles and licks on my earlobe. I give a muffled moan at the watery contact and before I knew it, he presses his body on to mine, making sure that his dick is aligned with my clothed ass. My eyes roll at the contact and the purposeful grinding of his dick against my butt makes it harder to see and take in the moment with appreciation. It's like everything is rushing into my mind like a freight train passing by me as I stand by the railroad. It's just so quick that I somehow cannot help but feel like it's the best things always leave and pass us the quickest.

"So beautiful, my tribute," he says into my ear. The pet name - which is so different from the typical ones - makes my heart beat faster, and I can feel myself getting giddy over his next move. He moves his lips from my neck then to the nape of my back and the with his fingers hooking slowly - and deliberate, might I add - he pulls the sport briefs down to my feet and I kick it off to the ground, letting it join the messy strewn of clothes on the floor. He bites my butt cheek with soft nibbles before planting kisses on it. We moan when he kneads the muscle and my hands grip the sheet progressively tighter. He then gives a lick from the base of my balls and then glides it over my hole and then to the nape of the back. I moan loudly at the wet contact but I plead with him to not stop. He does it a few more times, and at anytime now the sheet and duvet might as well leave its pegged position. The way he teases me is so hard to resist not coming and no doubt a small part of the duvet is getting damp due to my leaking and aching cock. He prods his tongue into my hole and I moan shamelessly at feeling of his tongue pleasuring one of my sensitive organs.

"I want to fuck you, Peeta," he whispers into the air. I moan my approval and he continues to lick my hole. He flips me over onto my back and I watch as my pitiful purple leaking cock erecting and imploring for some action. He wraps his hand around it, stroking it and I moan at the touch. He then moves his lips closer to it before taking it, sucking it lovingly. I moan loudly, not caring whether the room is soundproof or not. I'm far too lost in the moment and I close my eyes subconsciously, and before I know it, the senses notched up to an overdrive. He kisses my lips and then slowly, he pushes his cock - condom less at that - into my hole, and I hiss and moan at the feeling. He's gonna fill me up and I will be begging for it like a slut, and the idea of me acting like a slut just excites me. I have truly changed in the course of a month and maybe it's worth it too.

He kisses my lips and plunges his tongue into mine. I reflexively dance my tongue with his as he holds my leg with one hand for easier access to my sweet spot and the other on mind, clasping like we're making love. He then moves in and out of my hole, and the stars start coming as I open my eyes and watch the beauty that is right in front of me. Our eye contacts never break and as he hits my sweet spot, I subconsciously moan out his name.

"Say my name again, my tribute," he growls into the kiss, "I want to hear you,"

"Cato," I plead, "Please, Cato. S-So good," I moan out. I'm screaming his name like a prayer, as if he's the one that's going to bring me save me. He slams his dick onto my prostate and I beg his name louder, glorifying his performance. "Come, my tribute," he says. "Let me hear you come my name out,"

My back arches and white long ropes leave the tip of my length like a syringe being squirted of its content. It hit on both our stomachs, more for me, obviously. Cato moans at the sight of me coming but doesn't stop as he continues giving me all the pleasure he can give to me. "Come in me, Cato. Please," I say. I can feel my tongue about to say love, or baby but I bite back the urge. I clench my ass and I watch his eyes turn full white as he feels the ring of muscle tightening around his rubber free dick. He moans his release and I feel so full when I feel his come emptying into my hole.

He detaches off me and kisses me almost instantly. I kiss back fervently and we pull back, smiling at each other. He plops his back beside me and I can hear his heavy pants when he finally lets himself rest. I guess I gave him a run for his workout.

We don't talk for a moment, just calming our breaths until we manage to get at least a string of words out without having ur breaths hitched. It was hard. So far, this is the second time our hormones have done the talking to us and every time we end up talking, it was already too late to even get to know each other. It was… frustrating, but more of a subtle kind of frustration, you know what I mean? You don't feel it until you actually pass through that specific phase. I couldn't let that happen again. Evaluation is in two days, and honestly? I doubt they'll let us be together for another night, and even if we did, it'll all be too late. Cato would've have just wasted his time with me, and with almost little to no mutuality, he'll probably kill me after we find a place devoid of any cameras.

I turn my head to him and see that his eyes are still glued to the ceiling, his breathing receding to a normal rate. Training will do that to you, and his sweaty chest makes a comeback and I couldn't help but get aroused once more just seeing it. I drape my arms around him and kiss the chest, and Cato gives me a silent huff of chuckle. He holds my arm and then turns his body to face me.

"I-," I hesitate, not really sure whether he'd be open to hear this, but I say it anyway, "I'm glad we did this," His eyes widen partially upon me saying it and somehow, I wasn't lying when I said it. I have no chance of winning, and being with him, whether it's for the intention of using him or just basically having my last moments of a good time, I was grateful for it. To meet - well, get stared at, actually - him and do all of this. It's as if The Hunger Games have something far deeper than killing each other.

They were giving us room to be normal human beings. In a way, it's like an experiment. To put people in a certain milieu and then let them live there for throughout their childhood, then their adolescence. Whether they had been living through wealth or just plain hardship, it makes little difference. We were all at a disadvantage. If one lives in a district that is stable in terms of income, like District 2, you'd think you'll live a normal life, right? Wrong. Turns out in District 2, the place where blacksmith is their main culture, training becomes something that everyone should do; to shape them into brave warriors. With that sounding nice and inspiring from the outside, what many people don't know is the harsh reality of it. They kill mercilessly, and are bereft of any basic human emotions. Kids are told not to love their parents and they o so in the end. The only form of love they have will be pride when of their children is picked for The Hunger Games, or volunteered for those who crave for _certain_ human emotions. Put them in the quarters like where we are now, and they find out that their accommodation has little changes to their lives compared to the tributes from the poorer district like mine. Sort of acts like a buffer.

Now, take me as a tribute from 12. Lived in destitute, and then get picked into the games. Place them in the accommodation of the highest echelons, and you let him have a "normal" life. However, that normalcy ends when they are put in the Games. The winner, irrespective of their upbringing all ends up broken and mentally unstable. PTSD, schizophrenia, dementia is just some of the examples these tributes will return with. In hindsight, the Gamemakers have actually achieved their greatest goal; to make us unstable human beings, and if you'd think that we have become venerated for our survival, then you are basically getting further from the truth. We become ostracized, in more ways than one.

All that hard work, and for what?

Cato kisses me softly I nuzzle my chin in the crook of his neck, with his arms holding me tightly as we both fall asleep before having a moment of real clarity.

•

Time is now 0132, and I have still not left Cato's bed. I cuddle beside him and hold him tightly. He seems to be a light sleeper as he tightens his hold on me. My lips make a small smile against his skin and I can feel my heart tugging a little just having him beside him. It's a nice and probably the best way to get my mind things out of the whole training and everything. I probably have exaggerated this whole thought by just thinking of a world where I none of us, including the Capitol would live in a place where nobody is under such dictatorship. No games, no killings, no savage, and hysterical audiences with exaggerated fashion senses. Just the idea of me and hopefully someone like Cato who is a little saner without his years of being forced into this lifestyle, at home where I wake up and have him next to me and probably do trivial things that many couples would bask their time in.

Sadly, that isn't the case.

He groans after a few moments and my attention perks up when he starts facing his body towards me. I stare at his face and see him getting comfortable before returning to sleep. I was about to fall back asleep when he starts whispering, "I don't want to kill people," My head cants to his chin, and I wait patiently and intently as he continues, "These people. My parents, the district. All they care about is glory to themselves. Like they want to prove that their hard work for making swords and other weapons have some worth rather than just being made. Every night, I hope that they will revoke the idea of having The Hunger Games or even just the idea of having more than one winner in this game," My eyes turn soft at his words, and I somehow figure if only things can definitely go easier on us. We're innocents by nature, not born as bearer of our predecessors sins.

I sigh heavily and then look at Cato, "I hope for the same thing too, Cato," I say and with that note, he kisses me and I accept his lips eagerly. We all need a distraction, and the kiss is as good as any.


End file.
